Lost That Loving Feeling
by D Squirrel
Summary: Nick makes some life-changing decisions in between solving crimes and getting beat up. Monroe offers silent support and sarcasm. Hank takes a much needed vacation. Mostly sticking with canon up through Quill, after that it's a free-for-all. Check the beginning of each chapter for warnings. Big, BIG thanks to LittleBounce for all the help and support and editing.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: Language, mentions non-consensual zaubertrank-induced sex but nothing more than what you saw on the show, violence, death of OCs, Nick whump, creepy fly-people doing creepy fly-people things which are creepy, angst, sarcasm, so much sarcasm (I'm lookin' at you Monroe). Umm…angst, hurt/comfort, more Nick whump. No slash. Other warnings on specific chapters.**

_**Lost That Loving Feeling**_

Nick kept an eye on the bank of purple clouds massing over the mountains as he wedged one more box into his truck and closed up the back. The wind was picking up, stirring leafless branches, and sending a scuttle of winter leaves rattling down the gutter. It looked more like a spring tempest than mid-December, full of sleet and pounding rain.

His phone rang as he was climbing into the driver's seat. He started the engine and cranked the heat as he dug it out of his jacket pocket. Elvis was crooning out of the radio as it kicked on a little too loud.

_I'll have a blue Christmas without you—_

He turned it down low and answered the call. "Burkhardt."

"Hey, it's Monroe. Just wanted to see if we were still on for our training session this afternoon. Looks like the weather might be turning nasty. We might want to move up the time."

Nick dropped his forehead to rest on the steering wheel. Crap, he'd forgotten to call. He rubbed the back of his neck and wished the aspirin would kick in. "Sorry, I completely forgot that I need to cancel."

"Awww, man, we were going to try out that cool scimitar thingy."

They were going through the weapons closet of his Aunt's trailer piece by piece, checking things out, cleaning, getting a little practice in so he at least knew what they were like to hold and swing, how it felt when they made contact. It wasn't going to make him a weapon's expert, but the exercise, stress relief, and the company were all worth the effort. Every new weapon made Monroe light up like a kid at Christmas.

"I know and I'm sorry." He winced and wished that ever other word out of his mouth lately wasn't an apology. "I just…have some things to take care of."

He could actually hear Monroe's ears perk up over the phone. "What sort of things? Anything you need help with? I already cleared up my afternoon."

He sounded so earnest and eager to help and Nick felt a little stab of guilt every time he pulled the other man deeper into the mess that had become his life. At least this time it wasn't likely to end up in a life or death situation. "Yeah, actually that would be great. Let me give you the address."

He wasn't surprised to see Monroe's yellow VW already parked when he turned down the short, tree-lined street. The address wasn't that far from the other man's house. He reversed up the driveway next to the house, parking under the mossy, tin-roofed carport.

Monroe bounced out of the beetle, coming up the drive with a long, legged lope. His hair was wild today, curls flailing in the wind as he approached.

"Morning," Nick greeted.

"Good morning. I brought coffee and croissant. Is it appropriate to bring refreshment to Grimm related business?" He handed Nick a to-go cup.

"More than appropriate," Nick said, eagerly taking the cup. He'd gone straight into packing this morning, pausing only for a couple slices of toast. "But this isn't Grimm business."

"Dude, you're a Grimm ergo _anything_ you're involved in is Grimm related." Monroe looked extraordinarily pleased with his conclusion.

"This is not _business_ related then. Juliette and I…. We broke up." That was the first time he'd said it out loud, he was pleased he had managed it with only a slight hitch in his voice. Hank knew but he hadn't actually needed to say it to his partner who'd taken one look at him yesterday and threatened to drag him along on his trip back home for the annual Griffin family reunion.

"Oh, wow, man, that sucks." Monroe patted his shoulder awkwardly and a little too gently as if he thought Nick was going to crumble under his touch. "Did you fight? Did she kick you out? Do you need a place to stay?" More reluctantly he added, "Do you need to hug it out? Because I can call Rosalee. She's a _lot_ better at that kind of stuff."

"_No_ Juliette did not kick me out." He was a little offended that Monroe automatically went that way. Although under the circumstances it wasn't an unreasonable assumption. Digging keys out of his pocket, he unlocked the back door to his new rental.

"Wow. This house must have been built back in the 40's." Monroe pushed past him to wander around the kitchen. "Are these original appliances? I think some of them are older than you are. I think some of them are older than _I_ am. Wait a second—boxes in the car. I'm helping you move!" he accused.

Nick smiled for the first time that morning. "I was wondering when you'd figure that out."

Monroe snorted. "Fine, but you're buying me lunch."

"You drive a hard bargain."

Monroe was made of willpower and stubbornness and snark and a big streak of kindness right down the middle like the gooey center of a Ho Ho. Nick's known that since the first week they met (although he never actually appreciated the full scope of it until after he'd read the blutbad book in his Aunt's trailer). They actually have the Toyota entirely unloaded before Monroe spits out the question Nick knows he must have been chewing on the entire time like a particularly grisly bit of meat.

Sliding a box onto the 70's green linoleum counter, Monroe burst out, "So, uh, I thought you and Juliette were trying to work it out."

Nick pulled out his pocket knife and started cutting open tape. Somewhere in this load was pre-Juliette kitchen gear he'd never actually gotten rid of. "We were. I just..." He managed a smile that felt plastic and probably looked just as stiff. "Just realized I was being selfish."

"Selfish?"

He found the glasses, wrapped up in towels and dishcloths leftover from his bachelor days. "You know what the first thing my Aunt said to me was after she met Juliette? That I should leave her for her own good."

"That's a little harsh," Monroe said with a grimace that spoke volumes of his feelings towards Marie Kessler.

Nick shrugged. He'd thought so too. At the time. "She was right. I put Juliette in danger just by being around her." Pulling out two glasses, he walked over to the sink, giving the faucet a twist. Pipes groaned all over the house and they both waited a wary moment to see if something was going to burst. "I thought that I could keep the Grimm part of me separate from her." Jesus, he'd been so fucking naive. "She could have forgotten her parents, her work, her whole life." She could have _died_. There were a dozen ways that story could have had a less happy ending than Nick moving out.

"But she didn't," Monroe said, aiming for reassuring. "And she'll remember. Rosalee will find a cure."

Nick shook his head. "That's kind of the point. There shouldn't _need_ to be a cure. She shouldn't have been in danger in the first place. If I'd—" He cut that thought off before it got started, focusing on rinsing the glasses then filled them.

It was funny how he could remember the day he'd bought the glasses. They'd come in a whole set of dishes on the mark down shelf in the back of the store where he'd fled the dizzying array of cooking utensil for the familiar comfort of Sporting Goods. There had been some damage to the box, a single juice glass broken, but for half off, and an end to dish shopping, he was willing to overlook that.

Monroe looked dubious. He shifted awkwardly and Nick could literally _see_ him searching for something comforting to say. "Still…."

Yeah, that pretty much summed it up. "I've got to get back to the house before ten," Nick said, changing the subject to Monroe's obvious relief. "The alarm company is coming by to finish up. You want to help me with the packing? There isn't much left."

"It's like you really think I don't have anything better to do," Monroe complained halfheartedly.

"I'm sure you have many, many important plans for the day," Nick assured him, patting his back, "that you've put off to help your friend in his time of need." He was glad Monroe was here, the ready affection and sarcasm took his mind off the ache of worry and loneliness in his stomach.

Monroe rolled his eyes and downed his water in one big slug. "Go get in the car."

They hit every red light—every _single_ one—and were late getting to the house but so was the guy from the alarm company so it didn't matter.

"Centurion 3000," Monroe read off the partially-installed keypad by the door. "Sounds like…."

"Like they watched Ben Hur too many times," Nick suggested. "But the company is highly recommended. It even has a built-in carbon monoxide detector." So he was a little freaked out that Juliette would be alone in the house. And possibly he was contemplating calling her parents and suggesting that Juliette might like her mom to come up for a few weeks after she came home, a move that would have gotten him smacked upside the head if they were still living together.

"Fancy," Monroe commented, examining the numerous wires hanging out of the panel like he knew what they were for. Which, actually he might. Monroe was smart and Nick wouldn't put it past him to spend time reading manuals for random electronic equipment. "You should get one of these for your new place."

"I'm more worried about someone coming here looking for me. I asked Bud to spread the word that I was moving." Would it be overkill to borrow a real estate sign with the SOLD placard on it for the front yard? Probably.

"Then it ought to be all over town by tomorrow," Monroe sniggered.

Hearing a car door slam, Nick glanced out the window, spotting a company truck at the curb. "There's the alarm guy. He said all he'd have to do is connect everything and test it. Shouldn't take more than a couple hours."

Monroe clapped his hands together. "Let's get packing then."

() () ()

"You need furniture," Monroe complained as he picked through the leftover Styrofoam cartons sitting on the floor between them.

"Tomorrow," Nick replied, wiggling his back against the cabinet door to find a less jabby spot. His new landlord had offered the last tenant's furnishings but since the last tenant was now looking at fifteen years for seven counts of possession with intent to distribute Nick had cheerfully declined.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Monroe added, "but I think you should hit the thrift stores. Your furniture has a habit of…."

"Dying before its time," Nick finished for him.

"In ways that involve it being shattered, smashed, stabbed, shot, crushed, used as weapons," Monroe expounded, "etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. You sure you don't want to take anything out of the house? I could probably borrow a truck from one of the guys at group."

Nick glanced through the kitchen door to the flat screen TV they'd managed to wedge sideways into the back of his vehicle. It was the only thing in the living room besides a stack of boxes that mostly held clothes and things he'd never gotten around to throwing out three years ago when he'd moved in. He was happy to leave the rest of the furnishings and knickknacks for Juliette, but he wasn't quite martyr enough to give up his TV. "Nah. I'm good."

"You aren't planning on sleeping here tonight, are you?"

He _wasn't_ going back to the house. Maybe tomorrow to do one last check before Juliette came back but didn't think he could handle looking at the empty spaces in his old life tonight.

"You are!" Monroe accused, aghast at the very notion.

He wasn't, he'd planned on crashing in the trailer for one night, but he couldn't help teasing Monroe just a little. "I _am_ paying to live here." And at least here he'd have a shower in the morning.

"You don't even have a bed."

"I have a sleeping bag." Somewhere. In a box. That hadn't been aired out since who knew when. The trailer was looking better and better.

Monroe stared at him like he'd grown a third eye. Were there wesen that grew third eyes? That would be cool. Freaky but cool. Possibly he was a little bit sleep-deprived, not having actually slept since…since the night before last and that being restless hours on the couch turning possibilities and repercussions over and over and _over_ in his mind until he'd thought his brain was going to start smoking from the friction.

"Don't give me that look," he complained, not even having to look in Monroe's direction to know he was getting the worried eye.

He ended up spending the night on Monroe's couch (because the guest room looked like a mauzhertz had been nesting there and Nick actually wanted to _sleep_ rather than spend the night watching Monroe try to sort it out enough to uncover the bed) which was not only a lot more comfortable than his own couch but had the added benefit of coffee first thing in the morning.

At eight am he was lounging in sweat pants with a second cup and the sports section, listening to Monroe do his morning workout and the rain pound against the roof as if Mother Nature had a grudge against the world. The light creeping in the windows was gray and pale but inside it was warm and bright, filled with tinsel and evergreen boughs and colored lights and the smell of cinnamon from the basket of waxed pinecones beside the hearth.

"Don't you have to be at work soon?" Monroe asked, trundling towards the stairs.

"Took the week off." Nick turned a page, scanning an article on the Portland Timbers newest acquisition. "Want to go out to breakfast and then go furniture shopping?"

"You buying?" Monroe asked incredulous.

"Yep." Nick didn't look up, treating his surprise with the disdain it deserved. He'd totally paid back that three hundred dollars.

"In that case, absolutely."

Portland had a _lot_ of thrift stores, rummage stores, pawn shops, and places that could be classified as straight up junk piles. By lunch Monroe had found a wooden lamp carved to look like a small tree, a mixing bowl Nick thought had been made in Amish country sometime in the '20's, a record that also looked like it had been made in the '20's, and seven books covering a wide variety of topics.

"_How Not To Die in the Woods._ Really?"

Monroe pushed the book back in the pile, carefully looking anywhere but at Nick. "I find that this book resonates with my new lifestyle. You want to borrow it?"

Nick sighed. "Sure."

He also found a throw pillow that nearly matched the comfy leather chair in his living room, three flannel shirts, and a hat that made Nick want to stick a gigantic white feather in the band and say _arrrrrrrrgh _every time he saw it. And— the _piece de resistance_—a plastic storage bin full to the brim with Christmas lights. For three dollars.

"Three dollars!" Monroe crowed. "Look at all these lights. You never find something like this so close to the holidays. Hey do you suppose that eisbiber guy you know could recommend a good electrician? I need more outdoor plug-ins."

Nick gave the box a glance and went back to comparing mixing bowls. "Do they work?" Blue enamel or stainless steel. Did he even need a mixing bowl? Did he anticipate mixing often?

Monroe made a derisive sound, pawing through the lights with a level of glee Nick had previously only associated with small children and toy boxes. "Finding out is half the fun."

Nick found a dresser, a stackable washer dryer set that was plain but clean and in good shape. And an armchair that was like sinking into a cotton ball and obviously built for a man over three hundred pounds. He could curl up in it like a puppy.

Monroe promptly vetoed the armchair on account of the supposed smell.

"I can't smell anything," Nick protested.

"Trust me. The nose knows."

He found a couch. It was upholstered in a soft, shaggy, green cloth that he couldn't stop petting.

"Seriously, dude, you do not want that one."

Another chair. This one was leather and looked like it had hardly been used except for the back corner that someone's cat had used it as a scratching post. He figured he'd shove it against a wall and never notice.

"No." Monroe wrinkled his nose. "Just _no_."

Nick was beginning to think he was putting in way too much work into this.

"What about this one?" he asked tiredly, collapsing on another couch. It was a pullout, three piece sectional in some kind of nubby, beige cloth and he was never getting up again. Shopping with Monroe was on par with antiquing with Juliette or running a marathon carrying a mini-refrigerator. A man could only take so much.

Monroe circled the couch three times, which brought to mind a metaphor about dogs and beds Nick knew he should never _ever_ say aloud, and pronounced it, "Acceptable."

"Hallelujah," Nick declared. "I'll take it."

He found a small kitchen table and four mismatched chairs with much less drama and they headed for the nearest store with new beds because Nick doubted they'd ever find one that would get the Monroe stamp of approval.

Mattress stores were a surprising and welcome respite from the press of Christmas. A couple understated decorative trees tucked into corners and a string of tinsel around the sales counter at the front of the store. Best of all, the Muzak playing over invisible speakers was something instrumental and unrecognizable and if it had any relation to holiday music he wasn't going to try finding it.

They were in the plush pillow-top section when Monroe finally burst out, "Did you actually _talk_ this over with Juliette? It seems kind of sudden."

Nick stared at the ceiling. There were mirrors on it, which was both disturbing and strangely entertaining. He could see Monroe kicking back on the bed across the room, making funny faces as he wiggled and tried every sleeping position he could think of.

"There's a stranger living in her house," he said finally, softly, trusting in Monroe's sharp hearing. "She locks the bedroom door at night because there's a man downstairs she doesn't know." The uneasiness in her eyes made his stomach twist and his chest ache unpleasantly.

Monroe lifted his head enough to look over his toes. "Is that why you've been sleeping on the couch instead of the guest room?"

"I didn't want to make things worse." Like the morning he'd gotten called out really early and had gone upstairs to grab his electric razor out of the guest bathroom and scared Juliette half to death coming up on her in the darkened hall.

The scuff of a shoe warned him of the salesman's reappearance. "Gentleman, how's it going?"

Nick looked up at him. "I'll take this one. Queen size. With that frame over there." The headboard had all kinds of cupboard and drawers, perfect for hiding assorted Grimm paraphernalia in. "And I need it delivered today."

The salesman went in search of paperwork and the delivery truck schedule, gleefully clutching Nick's debit card in one hand.

"Still," Monroe said, voice getting clearer as he sat up, "did you actually _talk_ to her?"

Nick heaved a sigh that went all the way to his toes. They _had_ talked. Juliette had looked relieved then upset and then relieved again and had agreed that time apart might be for the best. While Nick had sat at the kitchen table wondering if _he_ should be upset _or_ relieved with the quick agreement, she'd made him a mug of hot chocolate and gone to pack for a trip to her parents.

"She's going to be fine, Monroe."

She would be. She'd go on with her life with hardly a thought for the guy who'd shared her house for a couple weeks.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "She won't even miss me."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Warnings: The aftermath of over-shopping, snerky jerky, feinting mauzhertz, SadNick, nothing much otherwise. I don't think they even swear in this chapter._

The over-loud ring of his cell phone woke him to weak, gray light on the floor and approximately ten seconds of complete heart-pounding, freak out that he had set his alarm wrong before he remembered that he was on vacation for the rest of the week.

Grabbing his cell off the headboard, he collapsed back on the mattress and streeeeeetched. Reveling in not running into anything on one side or falling off the other. While the circumstances weren't cheering, it was a relief to wake up on something he fit on.

He pressed the Talk button. "Good morning, Hank."

Hank chuckled as he asked, "Did you sleep well or stay up late drinking yourself into a stupor?"

"I wore myself out furniture shopping with Monroe. The man is a thrift store junkie." He paused then added, "Why do you ask?"

"Because it's after one in the afternoon."

Nick glanced out the window. "Huh. Let's put that in the slept well category then. I shall never again underestimate the value of a decent bed." He stretched again, just because he could, and mentally added laundry soap and fabric softener to the list of things he needed to buy. He'd taken a couple extra sets of sheets, his own pillow, and blankets from the guest bedroom closet but it all smelled like the detergent from home.

Hank chuckled. A radio was playing in the background, fading as he moved away from it. "Is this the same Monroe I know? The clock guy?"

"Yep, and also apparently the Duracell Bunny of wesen when it comes to bargain hunting. How's the reunion?"

"Well no one has done anything that would get them arrested," Hank said. "Yet."

"Sounds like good times." Sitting up he braced his back against the new headboard.

"There's a reason we only do this every three years. We need that long to forget the last time we all got together."

Nick laughed at his dark tone. "One more day. Then you'll be on a plane home and I'll spend next week listening to you reminisce over how much you miss them."

"That's because the insanity lingers," Hank chuckled. "Sort of like stink in a refrigerator." He paused for a long moment. "It's weird, you know, this…whole thing. I keep looking around wondering if anyone in my family is wesen."

Nick dropped his forehead onto his hand, bracing his elbow on a knee. Hank had dealt with the by-the-way-the-world-is-not-what-you-thought revelation pretty well but when this opportunity to head home had come up he'd jumped at it.

"There are a couple cousins on my dad's side," Hank continued, "that are…odd. Even for my family tree."

"I could come down and take a look at them for you," Nick said jokingly.

Hank had threatened several times to drag him along but, while he appreciated the offer, the idea of that many of his partner's relatives gathered in one place…was worrisome. Worse it would be in another state with no way to escape. And after barely surviving one of the Silverton family reunions, which were small and sedate, compared to the Griffin's, he had his doubts about making it through the event.

"Honestly, I think I'd rather _not_ know. There are some things that should remain a secret." There was silence for a moment and the sound of a door opening and closing somewhere nearby. "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay." The last couple weeks of not really having Juliette—not _his_ Juliette—had prepared him for this. It was, he realized guiltily, a huge relief to be done with it. "I think this is good. A clean break, you know."

"That's good to hear. You need to talk about it—"

"I'll call," Nick interrupted. He'd heard that speech more than once already. "Draw on your years and years of experience with this sort of thing."

"Ha ha," Hank said. "In my case it was them doing the leaving. You doing okay for money."

"Yes, mom, I'm fine." He and Juliette hadn't mixed finances too much other than co-signing the loan for the house. He had no idea how that was going to work out. Now that she was junior partner Juliette made enough to pay the mortgage on her own, but it was a big house for one person.

The first time they'd walked the upstairs hall, they'd whispered stories to each other about a nursery, bunk beds, having to make the downstairs office into a guest room for the holidays to fit everyone in, barely listening to the real estate agent rattling on about the hardwood floors and updated wiring.

"I have Aunt Marie's life insurance and what's left over from Mom and Dad's inheritance. And I sold the ring." He didn't have to say which ring, Hank would know. "I bought a Centurion 3000 for the house."

"Good system," Hank said approvingly. "Hey, for what it's worth I think you made the right choice. When she gets her memories back then you two can make a fresh start of it."

Hank was a die-hard romantic like that. Despite his own bad luck with love he still believed in forever. Nick didn't have the heart to tell him he couldn't restart anything with Juliette until he told her the truth and made her understand exactly what living with a Grimm would entail. At which point she would either change the locks on the door or have _him_ locked up and it wouldn't matter anyway.

Hank rang off with a promise to call for a ride from the airport when he knew his flight times.

Tossing the phone aside Nick lay there for a long minute convincing himself that _no_ he couldn't actually take a nap when he'd only just woken up. It was mighty tempting though. Finally rolling out of bed, he used the bathroom, found his toothbrush, and considered food. He hadn't made it to the grocery store yesterday so he'd have to go out or eat leftover Chinese. Leftovers won because his stomach decided it couldn't wait long enough to shower and drive somewhere.

He started unpacking kitchen items to find a fork, driven to impatience over the chopsticks, and then kept going, riding on a wave of fond nostalgia as he uncovered the set of dishes his Aunt had bought him when he'd gone off to college wrapped up in bath towels. At least he wouldn't need to buy any of those right away.

There was the shiny red toaster he'd gotten as an apartment warming present. The Elvis lamp he'd gotten that time in Mexico that Juliette had hated on sight. It was ugly as hell but, man, did it bring back memories. There was a picture in one of the albums of Halloween 1990, the year Dad had made them matching Elvis costumes. He remembered feeling very grownup with stick on sideburns and a pound of hair wax to force his wayward, cow-licky hair into the correct style.

Tucked into his old coffee pot was the wooden beaded curtain that had hung in the kitchen door of his last apartment. The only reason he'd kept it was because he'd been dating the girl who'd given it to him and after they'd broken up…well, he'd been used to it by then. Both items were guaranteed to draw a scathing comment from Monroe and therefore definitely sticking around. At least for a little while.

Another box yielded pots and pans and things he'd never bothered to unpack because they'd had two of them and Juliette's were nicer. He cooked to eat. She loved to experiment and would occasionally buy some weird cooking implement because it looked cool and then spend hours finding a recipe that used it. It had resulted in some very interesting meals.

He was elbow deep in plastic Kellogg's cereal bowls (valuable collector's items!) when it hit him suddenly that there would be no more coming home to Juliette in the kitchen in her floral apron and giant oven mitts and he had to sit down on the floor for a few minutes and breathe through the hot, choking _ache_ that swelled up in his chest.

Clenching his fists against his thighs, he told himself fiercely that he would get over it. He just needed…groceries. He needed groceries.

The store was only a few minutes away. It was one Monroe recommended when he'd realized how close Nick would be and looked exactly as he had imagined a store Monroe shopped in should look. It smelled earthy and fresh and shopping took twice as long because he didn't know his way around the aisles and he didn't recognize most of the brands. The bill made him twitch a little, but hey he was only shopping for one now anyway.

Back at the rental, he tucked everything away into randomly chosen spots that would probably get rearranged after he'd gotten a feel for the place, and settled in to make dinner and watch a movie he only made it halfway through. Apparently catching up on a little rest had reminded his body of all sleep it had lost in the last five years or so. He was rather looking forward to stockpiling some for the next five.

() () ()

Hank was calmer than he'd been in weeks when Nick picked him up at the airport, relaxed and grounded. He hopped into the Toyota with a big smile and a carry-on bag that Nick was pretty sure now weighed twice as much as it had when he'd left.

"You look well rested. Good vacation?"

Hank grinned. For all his complaining about his family, he loved the trips down south. "I brought you some of Granny's prize-winning rattlesnake jerky."

"Yum," Nick said, "snake jerky. I hope you brought enough for Wu, you know how he gets if we don't share." He put the Toyota in gear and made his way out of short-term parking.

"Pounds of it," Hank assured him. "I think she's been saving it up for the past year."

Wu did love Granny Griffin's rattlesnake jerky. She'd emailed him the recipe a couple years ago but he couldn't quite replicate it. Said it was a difference in the regional diet of the snakes. Nick thought he was crazy, tended to buy his plain old _beef_ jerky in a store, and wondered if Monroe's vegetarianism extended to reptiles. Monroe was one of the few people he knew who might appreciate the pure weirdness of snake jerky.

"How are the parents doing?"

"Well, the separation is officially over."

"In a good way?"

Hank shrugged expressively. "They're back together. Who knows how long it will last?"

"What is this, the fourth time?"

"Fifth in the last ten years."

Sometimes Nick wondered how Hank had ended up with four siblings. Make up sex, maybe. It explained a lot about Hank's determination to make his own relationships work. He joked that they left him, and it was true, but only because he hung on with a stubborn determination to make it work that bordered on obsession.

"Maybe it will stick this time," he said supportively. "Did your Uncle make it down?"

Hank smirked wickedly. "The one with the eye patch or the crazy one?"

"One of them has an eye patch?" Nick laughed, expanding the image in his head of the Griffin clan to include one pirate uncle complete with beard and peg leg. "When did that happen?" He settled more comfortably in his seat as they hit the freeway and got up to speed. Hank always had the best stories about his family.

() () ()

"Monroe. You don't have to hover," Rosalee said for the fourth time. She was sliding from amused but tolerant into full on aggravated. "I'm fine now. One hundred percent recovered."

"You had the plague not too many days ago," Monroe reminded her for the _fifth_ time. Gripping her carefully by the upper arms he sat her down into the stool by the register, gently but inexorably. "The _plague_," he repeated as if she might have forgotten.

Nick leaned on the broom he was putting to use on the far side of the store, watching Rosalee's expression of resigned annoyance change to slightly less annoyed affection.

"There's no harm in letting someone help you out," Monroe added. "Nick does it all the time."

"Hey," Nick complained, but mildly because he _did_ lean on them too much. He was trying to cut back.

"Monroe…" Rosalee started.

"Sit," Monroe interrupted. "Stay. I'm making tea. Nick you want tea, don't you?" He gave Nick a sideways look that said he'd _better_ want tea whether he actually wanted it or not.

"Tea sounds great," he said cheerfully.

Once he had vanished through the doorway, Rosalee heaved a loud and pointed sigh.

Nick pursued a particularly stubborn dust bunny that was trying to escape under a shelf and ignored the obvious hint.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the help," Rosalee said into the silence. "Don't think I'm ungrateful."

Nick glanced up to find her watching him with a soft look on her face.

"It's just been a very long time since I had someone fuss over me. I find it…" she blew out a breath, "…somewhat overwhelming."

"Only somewhat?" Nick put on an exaggerated frown. "We aren't trying hard enough then."

She flicked him a narrow eyed look but she was having to work at staying stern and when he smiled at her, unrepentant, she reluctantly smiled back.

"I guess I'm not used to having people worry over me."

"Well, now you've got at least two."

She fussed with something on the counter and glanced up at him with eyes that were suspiciously shiny.

"Possibly Monroe counts for two all by himself in the fussiness department," he decided.

She shot another fond look towards the kitchen. "One point five at least."

"He was _really_ worried. I think he blames himself since the picnic was his idea." Bracing the dustpan with a foot he swept up the dirt and assorted debris. "And he was terrified he would mess up the antidote." Nick wasn't even going to get into _his_ guilt over knocking Rosalee unconscious. Something sparkly caught his eye and he fished it out of the dustpan. "Lose a button?"

"I don't think so." She took the tiny button, wiping it clean on her sleeve. Then she smiled brilliantly. "I recognize this. When I was very little I had a doll with these buttons on her dress. I still have the doll packed away somewhere."

Nick put the broom and dustpan back into their cubby. "You used to play here?" He had a mental picture of mini-Rosalee with big brown eyes and pigtails. Bet she had every customer that came in wrapped around her finger.

"The shop has been in our family for generations." She tucked the button into a pocket, giving it a pat to make sure the flap was down. "I remember my Grandfather behind this counter." She smoothed her hands over wood rubbed butter-soft by decades of Calverts. "Freddy, DeEtta, and I played on the floor in the back room when we were little."

It seemed like a happy memory but at the same time a little bitter-sweet. "Are you glad you stayed?"

"Yes," she said decisively. "I can do a lot of good here."

"You've already done a lot of good," Nick pointed out.

She looked at him with worried eyes. "I'm still trying to find a cure for Juliette. You know that right?"

God he did _not_ want to talk about that today. This was a day for the lemon scent of wood polish, and dust motes stirred up by the broom, and the warm tiredness of good, hard work. It was not a day for digging into bad memories.

"I know you are," he told her hoping she'd drop it.

"There has to be something out there," she persevered. "It may take a while longer but I'll find it."

She felt guilty, he realized, guilty that she hadn't found a way to stop it in the first place, guilty that she hadn't cured it right away, and that wasn't right. Nothing about this was Rosalee's fault.

"If you don't…if she doesn't remember me…." He stumbled over the words, trying to get them out in a way that wouldn't sound horribly selfish. "If she doesn't forget anything else maybe we shouldn't…try so hard. Maybe she'd be better off not wanting her old life back."

If she _did_ remember and wanted to get back together—if she came to him and said she still loved him he…he didn't think he would be strong enough to walk away a second time. He'd never been able to refuse her anything.

Rosalee was around the counter and hugging him before he saw it coming. Startled, it took him a moment to return the gesture. She pulled back and looked up at him with those soft, dark eyes ready to say something that would undoubtedly be terribly kind and embarrassing and—

The chime on the front door dinged.

_Saved by the bell_, Nick thought and stepped back as two customers entered. One was twitching and woging into a mauzhertz before they even reached the counter and he decided it was an excellent time to see if Monroe needed help with the refreshments.

Monroe didn't, and though Nick got an odd look or two as he watched the other man arranged a plate of cookies and biscotti, at least Monroe didn't say anything about him hiding out in the back. "How is Hank doing after the big reveal?" Monroe asked instead.

"Good." He added thoughtfully, "Relieved. I'm trying not to overwhelm him."

"Good plan." The kettle whistled and Monroe turned away to retrieve it.

"Nick!" Rosalee called. "Would you come out here, please?"

Nick paused in the act of stealing a cookie off the plate, exchanging concerned looks with Monroe. Usually he did his best to stay far away from the day to day customers to avoid scaring off business. He headed for the front, followed closely by Monroe.

"Nick, this is Ellisaria Roth and Patricia Phelps," Rosalee said as they joined her at the counter. "Melanie Wurster, Bud's wife, told them that someone here might be able to contact our local Grimm for them." She gave Nick a significant look he interpreted as meaning it was his decision whether he fessed up immediately or kept his Grimmness to himself, or it might mean she was annoyed to learn she was suddenly the Portland dial-a-Grimm contact.

Ellisaria Roth burst in a stream of Spanish, upset enough to be on the verge of tears, and Nick's long ago high school Spanish class let him catch about two words of it. He picked out _hijo_ and _amigo_ and that was about it.

After a few minutes he suggested, "Why don't we go in the back where we can sit down?"

"I'm sorry," Patricia Phelps said, "she's very upset. Her son and his friend are missing."

At that moment Ellisaria sniffled and woged again and looked straight at him and squeaked, "Holy Shit! He's the Grimm!"

Or well she squeaked out something in Spanish that Nick was willing to bet was pretty close to that. The only word he got out of it was Grimm.

Then her eyes rolled back and Nick found his arms full of swooning mauzhertz in a desperate attempt to keep her from going straight to the floor.

Monroe clapped his hands together and said, too cheerful and too loud in the moment of shocked stillness that followed, "Well, that went, um…rather badly actually."

TBC

_NOTES: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and Favorited. Glad to hear from all of you._


	3. Chapter 3

_**WARNINGS: Beep, beep, beep…cliffhanger ahead. Also, icky things in books and Nick doing real live cop stuff (I know!). Oh and some swearing.**_

Ellisaria Roth spoke accented but understandable English when she wasn't freaked out and stress woging. With Patricia's help, Rosalee got her calmed down and onto the couch in the back room. Monroe served the recently-made tea and placed the plate of cookies on the table. It was a soothing gesture; it was hard to be afraid of someone when they were fussing over tea biscuits and napkins.

Sitting down in the chair across the coffee table from them, Nick leaned his forearms on his knees and tried to look concerned and harmless as he went through the usual questions. How long had her son been missing? Where and when was he last seen? Who was he with? Were there any issues at home? Had she made a report? Did she know anything about the home life of the other boy who had disappeared?

He didn't have his notebook with him, having shed his jacket in the warmth of the shop, but there was a pencil and SpongeBob notepaper on the coffee table. He wrote notes under a shopping list-in-progress that included apples, extra-wide egg noodles, and Aloe Vera juice.

She showed him the business card she'd gotten from the policeman who'd been assigned the case. Nick jotted the name down.

"He didn't run off," Ellisaria Roth told him, nibbling frantically at her third cookie. "He would _not_ go without leaving a note."

"Other people have disappeared down there," Patricia Phelps added. "I saw flyers in the park when we were searching for the boys."

"It was the troll!" Ellisaria burst out.

"Troll?"

"He's not a troll," Patricia corrected with an apologetic look at her distraught friend. "There's a man who lives in a cave near the park. He doesn't like the children playing in the forest outside the park fence and I for one am glad he keeps them away."

Bracing the piece of paper against the sharp edge of the coffee table, Nick neatly ripped off the shopping list. "I'll talk to the investigating Detectives," he promised tucking the paper into a pocket.

() () ()

"Thought you were on vacation?" Wu commented, chugging past under the weight of a stack of cardboard boxes.

"Until Monday," Nick replied. "Did you miss me?"

It was midday. Close enough to lunch the place was quiet and nearly empty.

"Missed having someone who would carry their own files," Wu said acerbically, pitching his voice to carry to the other side of the room.

Detective Kerry looked up and flipped a one fingered salute Wu would have no doubt returned if he were not laden with boxes.

Kerry was just the person Nick wanted to see. "Some people," Nick commiserated to Wu and headed towards the back of the room. "Hey, Len. I heard you and Marci caught the missing person case for the MacGruder Park area."

"We did." Leonard Kerry grabbed a stack of paperwork off the chair next to his desk, nodding at Nick to have a seat. "What makes you ask?"

"Friend of a friend is the mom of one of the missing kids." Nick sat then immediately got back up to remove a pointy binder clip from the chair. "I promised her I'd see what's up."

Kerry grimaced. "That's a fucking mess right there. Four missing and all we have are rumors about monsters in the park." He began to dig through a box on the floor next to his desk. "Which one are we talking about?"

"Roland Roth. Went missing two days ago."

"Ah. Roth and Stuart." A few moments of rummaging brought out a pair of folders. "If it hadn't been for the two other missing persons in the same area they probably would have been shuffled into a file."

"They got a record?"

"Roth does. This isn't the first time he's gone missing."

Nick opened the file. Roland Preston Roth, age eighteen, last seen Monday at the MacGruder skate park a few blocks from the Roth's apartment in black jeans, red backpack, Metallica jacket, and checkered Vans. Nineteen year old Justin Mason Stuart, last seen with Roland. Blue jeans, red jacket, and a white stocking cap.

Justin had a clean record, but Roland had a previous runaway report. Two years ago he'd hopped a bus headed for Albuquerque where his father had moved a few months after the divorce. To his credit, Dad had immediately called Mom to let her know where the kid was. Heinz Roth had arranged for vacation and driven the boy home a week later. CPS had done two follow ups and that had been the end of it.

"What makes you think he's not on a bus this time?" Nick asked, taking note that they'd requested Albuquerque uni's do a check on the father's residence. They'd turned up nothing but a father frantic that his child was apparently missing. "He's eighteen now. He wouldn't even have to lie about his age to get a ticket.

Kerry started tapping his pen against the edge of his desk. "Roth's backpack was found near the fountain a couple hundred feet from the skate park. Nothing was missing as far as his mother could tell. Plus we ran their names through reservation lists for the bus, train, and airlines."

Nick scanned the CPS report again. "No recommendation for counseling?"

"Nope. Talked to the caseworker and teachers and they all said Roland's trip down south had done him a world of good. Grades and attendance went back up. Kid graduated top of his class. Sounds like he was blaming his mom for the divorce and everything else under the sun."

"Figured dad would sympathize and take it easy on him, huh," Nick said.

Kerry made a sound of agreement. "He found out very differently when he got there. The three day road trip back gave them lots of time to talk. According to the mother Roland was supposed to visit dad in March."

"So no reason to move up the visit and not tell mom."

"None that we could find."

Nick skimmed the details of the investigation. They'd combed the park for signs of a struggle, questioned several persons from the area including the local registered sex offenders, put pictures on the news, and come up with exactly nothing. Since both of the boys were over seventeen amber alerts had not been issued.

"Are all of the missing Roth's age?"

Kerry leaned back in his chair. "Nope. That's the weird thing. We have three males and one female. Varying ages, occupations, physical abilities. About the only thing they have in common is that they all went missing after dark and in the same general area."

"The first one was Teresa Asper," Kerry continued. "Disappeared six days ago. Given her drug history we figured she went looking for a late night buy. Except Narcotics said the dealers have suddenly and mysteriously cleared out of MacGruder." The pen tapping increased with every sentence. "I talked to Snyder who talked to one of his CI's who said that word's gotten around about a _monster_ living in the park."

Shit, it was looking more and more like a wesen case. "Sounds like they've been sampling a little too much of their own product," Nick joked, rubbing his forehead. Kerry's compulsive tapping was something he could handle most of the time…from across the room. There was a _reason_ his partner had banned Kerry from possessing click-top pens.

"Whatever the reason," Kerry continued, "that park has turned into a ghost town after dark."

That was not reassuring. Sure park pushers generally weren't the toughest felons around but they guarded territory fiercely as feral alley cats.

"Asper's sister filed a missing person's report. Wouldn't have had any idea where she went missing except someone turned in her purse."

"Empty?" Nick asked.

"Surprisingly no. A little over fifty bucks, credit cards, checkbook, ID, all accounted for. Never found her cell phone though."

"Huh. You mind if I take a look at the other files?"

Kerry grinned. "Thought you were on vacation."

Nick shrugged, pulling out his most innocent smile.

Kerry rolled his eyes and shoved the box over with a foot. "Knock yourself out. Fresh set of eyes couldn't hurt. But if the Captain catches you, you didn't get those from me."

Nick flashed his most innocent smile. "What files?"

Grabbing a notepad from his desk, he took the box to Interview 3 where he had some room to spread out, was out of the Captain's immediate sight, and most importantly it was far, far away from the _tapping_ pen.

Four victims.

Teresa Asper, thirty-three years old, divorced, no children, two prior arrests for possession and paraphernalia, both pled down to community service and probation. Kerry was probably right about her reason for being in the park so late. There had been a large number of drug related complaints in the area as late as two weeks ago.

Collin Smith, forty-two, a substitute teacher at Portland Community College who lived in a nice house on the north side of the park and walked his dog every evening after work. The night he'd disappeared he'd taken on a last minute evening class and gotten home later than usual. The dog had come home, skittish and freaked out and alone.

He copied down names and dates and locations. The school teacher had a restraining order against an ex but she had a solid alibi for the night of his disappearance. Ellisaria's 'troll' was listed in the interview notes for the boys and Nick figured that was a good place to start. If he actually was a wesen and this was wesen related maybe he'd seen something he couldn't tell the regular cops.

He returned the files, let Kerry know where he was going, and got out before Renard's uncanny sixth sense for detectives-doing-unauthorized-things kicked in.

The cave was on west side of the park, half folded under the ridge of a steep hillside of overgrown blackberry vines, leafless and brown with winter. He had to hike about half a mile up a ravine to get there.

A few drops of rain spattered over his jacket and it was crisp enough he was glad he'd brought his gloves. He squinted at the sky and thought it looked like it was breaking up a bit. If it cleared off tonight, it would probably get cold enough to freeze before morning.

There was a clearing at the top where the winter grass had been flattened down. A small, professional looking rock-ringed fire pit took up the middle with a couple old logs pulled up for seating. Before he'd made it past the fire pit, there was movement in the dimness of the cave entrance then a pale face peering out at him.

Nick showed his credentials. "Detective Nick Burkhardt, Portland Police. I'm looking into the disappearances here in the park. I was told I could find Camden J. Wells here."

The guy edged a little farther into the light. He wasn't much taller than Nick himself. Nick would have called him scrawny except it looked like there was a lot of muscle under the t-shirt and flannel jacket, not a lot of bulk, just lean muscle. Over all there wasn't a whole lot about this guy that screamed troll. Other than the whole living in a cave thing.

"What do you want with him?" The voice was definitely troll-like, deep and gravely. Despite the chilly weather and the lack of heavy coat he didn't look cold, only wary. "I already talked to the police."

"Just a couple follow up questions," Nick said. There hadn't been a picture of Camden Wells in the files but the description was accurate enough. "Do you want to talk out here or go someplace little warmer?"

"Here is fine." Wells stepped fully outside.

"Alright then. Four people have disappeared from the park near here."

"I told the other cops," Wells said guardedly, "I didn't have anything to do with that."

"Maybe," Nick allowed. "I heard you've been harassing kids in the park."

Wells grunted a no. "They hide out in the ravine there to drink and smoke. I run them off. There's a lot of trash dumped up there. It isn't safe."

"So you're protecting them," Nick said. He thought Ellisaria had been right; he was getting a serious wesen vibe off the guy. "Were you _protecting_ Roland Roth and Justin Stuart two days ago? Tried to run them off, they didn't want to go, and things got violent?"

"No," Wells barked. Angry, but not enough to woge.

Nick pressed harder. "Maybe they were drinking. There was an accident. No one's going to blame you if they were drunk."

Wells glared at him silently, jaw clenched.

Good control. Or he was human after all. "Or maybe you didn't run them off at all. Maybe you invited them up here to have a little fun—"

"Oh hell no!" Wells growled. And then he woged.

_Not_ a troll. That was not a fucking troll.

That was a goddamn ogre.

"Grimm!" Wells rumbled and _now_ the deep voice matched his appearance. The woge had put half a foot of height and good thirty pounds of muscle, straining the loose clothing, and Nick wondered how the hell that worked. He suddenly wished he'd asked Monroe just where all the hair came from.

He backed up hastily, dragging his gun out and up. "Stop right there. I'm not here for you."

"You're a Grimm," Wells said as if that explained everything, glowering at him from under shaggy brows.

"Even more reason not to do something stupid." He took another step back, feeling for the edge of the path under his heel.

Wells glared and grumbled, "I didn't do anything to them. I told the other cops that."

"I believe you." Nick nodded. "Your alibi checked out."

Wells scowled at him suspiciously for a long, long moment then shook and twitched his way back to human. "That was a shitty thing to do. You scared the hell out of me."

"Likewise." He hesitated then shifted his gun down a few inches.

Wells pinched the bridge of his nose hard and rubbed a hand over his hair. "Damn. Haven't done that in awhile."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just out of practice." He sat on the log by the fire pit with a thump.

Nick found a tree to lean against. No harm keeping a bit of space between them for now. "Guess we don't have to dance around the question of whether or not you're wesen," he said, still a little breathless with adrenaline.

Wells barked out a laugh. "Nope." He looked Nick over again, a professional and thorough assessment.

Military, Nick thought. Recently released. The haircut hadn't had time to grow unrecognizable.

"I've heard of you," Wells said suddenly.

"All good I hope," he quipped, shifting against a knobby bit of wood pressing against his shoulder blade.

"The locals say the badge isn't just a prop," Wells said. "That you're fair."

Nick took a deep breath in and out, waiting for his heart rate drop another couple notches before he continued. "I try to be." He appreciated more than he could say that at least a few wesen out there who didn't think he was a bloodthirsty murderer. "As a cop I'm on vacation. As a Grimm I'm looking into the disappearances in the park. The mother of one of the missing boys asked me to help."

"What do you want with me?" Wells demanded warily.

Nick gestured to the park. "You have a great view from up here. Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around? Anyone who looked antsy or nervous." Anyone who might not necessarily show up on the surveillance camera at the skate park.

Wells shook his head, shifting uneasily on his seat. "It's a park. Everyone over the age of eighteen without a kid is suspicious. Anyway I haven't seen it in human form. Can't help you with that."

"Wait." Nick straightened. "You've actually seen something? Wesen?"

"Came after me last night. Right out of the trees by the fountain. Stupid shit tried to carry me off." Wells smirked. "Siegbarste's are heavier than we look."

"It flies?"

"And shrieks like a banshee in stereo." He considered for a moment. "Actually I guess it's more of a buzzing. High pitched. Like a million flies all at once. Kind of drills into your brain."

Of course it did. "Wonderful," Nick commented dryly. "How did you get away?"

Wells tapped an ear. "Grenade. Ruptured both eardrums." He shook his head slowly. "Lost about thirty percent of my hearing." He shook his head. "Can't believe I would ever be thankful for that."

Medical discharge then.

Wells added, "And I was wearing my headphones. They gave me enough protection I was able to get my brain moving and fight it off."

Nick made a mental note to swing by the drug store for some good quality earplugs.

Wells continued, "It dropped me. Then I hit it with a rock."

"A rock," Nick said, aware he sounded a tad incredulous. "You drove it off with a rock?" Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as he thought.

"It was a _big_ rock." Wells smiled fiercely. "We're strong too."

Lord did he ever know that. He still woke up sometimes sweating from the memory of massively strong hands throwing him around like he was a child.

"It—whatever it was—was damn strong too. If I'd been human it would have carried me off." Wells shook his head. "As it was I ended up with a headache and a couple bruises."

Flying, brain-drilling noise, _and_ super strong. "Tell me it doesn't breathe fire or spit acid or something equally horrible."

Wells chuckled. "Not that I saw, but I didn't really get a look at it. It had eyes like a bee, you know, sort of ovalish and black and shiny, but the wings were like a fly."

Bee and fly hybrid, right. "You said it was night. What time was the attack?"

Wells tapped his wrist. "Sorry no watch."

Monroe would be _appalled_.

"It was late. Late enough there wasn't much traffic. That's about as specific as I can be."

Nick looked out at the park. The view really was amazing up here. "What were you doing out that late?"

"I walked to the grocery over on Eleventh. They have the best fried chicken there."

"So you go there often." Wells' height and build were average enough he'd be hard to pick out on video, and mom and pop groceries rarely had surveillance cameras with enough clarity to see a face.

"Once a week. I usually go late. Don't like the crowds."

"Do you know any of the employees by name?" Nick pressed. Maybe someone would remember what time Wells had been in the store.

"A couple. Hey, they did the first closing announcement while I was waiting in line so it must have been just before nine. They start the announcements fifteen minutes before they actually close up. It was probably ten or fifteen minutes later I got jumped."

"That's helpful. Thanks."

Three of the four victims were known to have disappeared between 9:00 and 10:00pm. Teresa Asper had gone missing at some point after 7:00pm. Kerry and his partner had been unable to narrow it down further.

"Is that it?"

"Not quite." He had an idea about how to find this thing. A trip to the trailer was in order but first…. "I need to see where you were attacked."

Later, over a turkey and cheese sandwich and fruit cup, Nick narrowed his target down to three of the likeliest possibilities. It was a little disturbing that there were so many wesen that flew and buzzed and may or may not have been a bee/fly mix.

He snapped pictures of each drawing with his cell. None of them looked friendly. One of them used dead bodies as a hatchery. The second was even creepier, preferring warm, living bodies to incubate its eggs. The third one just ate people once a year before it went into some kind of winter hibernation. He was kind of hoping it was number three.

He pushed away the second half of his sandwich. Suddenly he didn't have much of an appetite.

() () ()

"You again," Wells said gruffly and tossed a piece of wood on the small fire. "Here to kill me this time?"

"I brought coffee," Nick said by way of greeting. He held up two cups. "Didn't know how you liked it but I figured you wouldn't be picky after military coffee."

Wells paused in the middle of taking the cup, giving him a closed, wary look.

"It's the hair," Nick explained. And the way he'd set up camp, the way he moved, the way he scanned the surroundings every few minutes. Probably only been out a few months.

Shutting off his flashlight, Nick tucked it away and made himself at home on a log next to the fire. It was a nearly clear night, cold enough he'd been able to see his breath as he puffed his way up the trail from the parking lot.

Wells sat down on the other log, giving him a wry look. "If you're not here to kill me, what do you want this time?"

"Need you to look at some pictures." Digging out his cell he called up the three pictures he'd taken of the books. "Do any of these look like what you saw?"

"Ick." He thumbed to the next one. "Ick." Next. "Okay that one's just gross."

Nick sighed. "My feelings exactly."

"Could be any of them," Wells said finally, scratching idly at his beard. "But the last two seem closer. What are they?"

Nick shook his head. "I'm not even going to try to pronounce the names, but they seem to have originated in Africa and South America. Look, thanks for your help." He needed to get going if he was going to be set up by eight-thirty. It would be just his luck that the thing was early.

"You're going after it?"

"Well, yeah. Four people are missing. There's a chance they're still alive." The boys at least. He hoped. God, he hoped.

"You know where to find it then?"

Nick stood, retrieving his phone. "I know roughly _where_ it hunts, thanks to you. And hopefully the cold will keep anyone else away." If this thing wanted dinner it was going to have a limited menu. "Tonight is my best shot."

Wells stared at him. "And this seems like a good plan to you?"

Nick shrugged. Not really. Normally he'd call Monroe to see if he could sniff out this thing's den or lair or…hive or whatever during the nice, bright daylight, and then call in backup. But Monroe wasn't answering his texts and he wasn't going to wait until morning to try this. And besides, he'd told himself he was not going to lean on his friends as much.

Other Grimms hunted alone (all of them if Monroe's stories were to be believed) and survived. His mother and aunt had worked alone and done just fine.

At eight forty-five he was sitting on the bench closest to where the attacks had taken place, ear plugs tucked in, back pack full of gear at his side. So far he hadn't seen another soul and the silence was getting a little eerie. Maybe it wasn't coming. Maybe it needed time to recover from being whacked by a rock-wielding ogre.

The fountain where Roland Roth's bag had been found was on the other side of the trees, empty and drained for the winter. He could just see the bone-white stone through the looming shadows of the tree trunks. Slouching down on the bench, he tipped his head to rest on the back, scanning the trees and the swaths of sky visible through reluctantly parted clouds.

The lamp over the nearest sidewalk was one of those top-enclosed things that kept all the light on the ground. He vaguely recalled reading the newspaper article last year about the new fixtures that would reduce light pollution all over the city, hadn't thought much about it at the time, but right now—wow, the stars were amazing.

Back before his dad had died there had been camping. Overnight trips, sometimes weekend getaways, that mom had rarely participated in. He remembered watching the stars come out and his dad making up constellations because he could never find anything but the big dipper, remembered listening to the distant coyote howls echoing and re-echoing through the mountains and the fading crackle of the fire as it burned down to glowing embers.

Marie hadn't been much for camping. Said the woods were too dangerous. A couple times, when she was away on her trips, he'd dragged his sleeping bag out to the back yard. He'd thought it would help the loneliness, but it hadn't been the same.

It probably said something sad about what his life had become that he was sitting alone in the dark waiting for a _flying monster_ to pounce on him and this was the most relaxed he'd been in...God, he couldn't even remember. It was _peaceful_. He burrowed deeper into his jacket, and breathed out a plume of white into the air.

His phone began vibrating, startling him a little. He pulled it out with one hand, tugging an earplug free with the other. "Burkhardt."

"Hey, it's Monroe. I just got home from the movies with Rosalee and saw your message."

In the background Nick heard at least three of Monroe's clocks go off and used the edge of the bench to push back the sleeve of his jacket to look at his watch. Nine o'clock. "Did you get the pictures?"

"Yeah, just a second. I'm opening them up now." There was a long pause then, "Cool. Are those wings?"

"Yes." Nick smiled at his excitement about all things Grimm. "Do you know what they are?"

"Bugs of some kind?"

"Helpful, Monroe, very helpful."

"Ha. I've never seen anything like them before." He hummed a couple times. "What did your books say?"

Nick grimaced. "That I should shoot them a lot and then cut off their heads."

"Shocking," Monroe commented drolly.

"Yeah. None of them sound like the kind of person you'd want for a neighbor."

Monroe chuckled. "I know of a couple people I can ask. How did they come across your Grimm radar?"

He explained, "Four missing persons in MacGruder Park." Shifting shadows caught his attention. There wasn't much of a breeze tonight but the branch of one particular tree was moving vigorously. "Witness said it flew and buzzed but didn't have much beyond that. Monroe, I've got to go."

"Wait," Monroe said. "Where are you right now?"

"Um…."

"Are you _in_ the park? The park where people _disappeared_."

The branch shook sharply and then stopped. As if something had landed on it.

"I've got to hang up now," Nick said.

"You _are_ in the park!" Monroe accused. "Alright just wait there. I'll—"

"Monroe, I appreciate the thought but I don't need a babysitter."

There was a noise of aggravation on the other end of the phone. "Just promise me you won't try to take this thing on by yourself."

"I don't think I can do that," Nick said slowly. He eased the edge of his jacket up and popped the safety loop on his holster.

"What! Why not?"

"Because I think I hear it coming. Gotta go. I'll call you later." Hanging up he quickly pushed the earplug back in and grabbed his bag, slinging it over one arm, and started along the path. Just a late-nighter cutting through the park on the way home.

The distant, grating buzz lurking on the edge of his hearing suddenly became clear and sharp.

Then it stopped.

TBC

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Bwahaha, I warned you there would be a cliffhanger. Our mystery wesen is based on a bot fly. For your own sake _do not_ under any circumstances Google the bot fly. Ever. Particularly the bot flies that like people. I hated having to scrape those little yellow eggs off the horses' legs. Little did I know, we in America have it easy. Easy I tell you!

On a less gross note, thanks for the reviews and keep 'em coming. I adore hearing from you guys. Our little Grimm fandom has lost so many readers every one is precious.


	4. Chapter 4

**WARNINGS: Violence, language, Renard being snarky, and delicious, delicious fried chicken, **

Nick was pretty sure it wasn't his fault he forgot to call Monroe back, what with the fight and rescue and the following explanations to Renard and then the Chief of Police and _then_ Hank who'd heard the call on the scanner as he was driving home and was currently talking on his cell while leveling a glare that might be termed…unhappy.

Nick guiltily shifted the ice pack EMS had given him for the bruise on his face. He probably looked a _little_ worse for wear from the initial attack by the wesen-fly-bee thing, which had left him bruised and bleeding from the nose but mostly unharmed. Really there'd hardly been any hand to hand fighting at all before he'd managed to knock the man unconscious.

A couple weeks ago, Wu had installed this handy little app on his phone that let him track it if it was stolen or, you know, dropped in the woods. He couldn't always count on Monroe being around to sniff it out for him. Or dial the number so they could hear it ring.

It could also be synced and used to track other phones such as the burner he'd purchased earlier and he'd tucked into the stunned wesen's jacket pocket. It had been easy enough to track the guy—Ben Salah according to the wallet Nick had perused while waiting for the man to wake up—to an old building tucked back in the trees just inside the park boundaries.

Judging by the bits and pieces of machinery scattered throughout and the ancient oil spots on the wooden floor, the building had probably once been a storage warehouse for large equipment. It had been abandoned at least a decade, half fallen into rubble. The windows were either boarded up or broken out and the only illumination came from a single kerosene lantern.

He'd gotten in just fine, located the victims, took a moment to _freak out_ over the fact that they were stuck to the walls in _cocoons_, then got on with the business of getting them out. Seriously _cocoons_.

Ben Salah—creepy man-fly-thing the book had labeled as a kifo inzi—had taken exception to his attempts to free the victims and, well, after that it had gotten messy. He'd wanted to arrest the man, as it was they'd probably have to use dental records for identification.

Renard came striding up to the ambulance where Nick was sitting with the boys while they were checked over. "The fire department says they'll have it knocked down in another half hour or so but they'll be on it all night watching for hot spots. Forensics will have to wait until the morning to retrieve the body."

Nick stared at what was left of the blazing fire, thick, black smoke still boiling straight up into the roiling clouds overhead. The old, oil and gas soaked wood had burned hot and fast and hopefully destroyed all evidence of weirdness he would not be able to explain. Like the _freaking_ cocoons. Or the egg sack he'd scraped off each of the victims with his knife and, Lord, he _needed_ a hot shower.

Hank came over, tucking his phone away. "That was Detective Kerry," he said to Renard. "SWAT is ready to go into Salah's house. No sign of the wife so far."

Marie's books claimed that egg-laying happened very rarely and kifo inzi were always found in pairs when that time rolled around. Always. The book had been very clear on that. Nick had expected to find both of them in the warehouse, but if Salah's wife had been there she had slipped away during the fight.

"I'm headed over there right now," Renard told them, "as soon as I give a statement to the press. Detective, please take your partner home and chain him to something. The couch perhaps. Maybe that will keep him out of trouble."

"Probably not," Hank said seriously. "But we can give it a try."

Nick protested, "Hey—"

"Detectives," one of the paramedics interrupted. "We're finished here. They'll both have to go in for observation overnight but other than a little dehydration they should be just fine."

"I'll ride in with them," Nick said. "Their families are already on the way to the hospital." His ear was still ringing from the phoned in shriek of happiness from Roland's mother.

The other two victims had already been sent on ahead. He hadn't heard about Teresa Asper but the paramedics were optimistic that substitute teacher Collin Smith would recover completely.

"I'll get _someone_ to ride in with them," Renard corrected. "Go home, Burkhardt."

Nick opened his mouth to argue. And shut it when he saw Renard's this-is-not-the-time-to-bullshit-me face. He put the icepack back on his bruises and reluctantly agreed, "Yes, sir."

Renard looked at him a moment longer then nodded. "Good job, Nick."

"Thank you, sir," he said, solemnity momentarily being overwhelmed by a grin.

With a nod and a flourish of his trench coat, Renard departed into the mass of emergency vehicles and flashing lights. A few minutes later Officer Ellie Melaine showed up to accompany the boys to the hospital. Nick handed over cards and promised to stop by for a visit tomorrow. Both were tired and bruised and more than a bit shell-shocked. The smaller one, Justin, kept growing whiskers and round little ears every time someone touched him.

Now that he'd seen them all together the victimology made more sense. All of them were under six foot and slightly built, including Camden Wells. The kifo inzi had been looking for the easiest to carry away.

Nick's phone rang as he was climbing down. "Burkhardt."

"Why are you in an ambulance?" Monroe demanded.

Nick winced, remembering his promise to call. "Shit, sorry, Monroe. I've been busy—"

"I can see that," Monroe interrupted. "Why are _you_ in an ambulance?"

"It's just a couple bruises," Nick promised. And a _tiny_ bit of smoke inhalation.

"Uh huh." Monroe did not sound convinced. "Did you get it?"

"Y—" Nick began but his voice suddenly gave out. He had to clear his throat and try again, "Yeah. I got him."

Monroe's voice was very soft as he asked, "And the missing people."

"All of them," Nick told him. "They're still unsure about the first victim, but the other three are going to be just fine."

"Good. That's good." There was a pause and the sound of car keys slapping onto the counter then the refrigerator opening and closing. "I'm eating ice cream at eleven o'clock. _This_ is what you've driven me to."

Nick offered, "Sorry?"

Monroe sighed into the phone. "Never mind. Is Hank alright? He looks tired."

"He's good. He's standing…right here." Nick paused. "Monroe, how do you know I'm in an ambulance?"

"Duh, you're all over the TV and radio. You got the dramatic Breaking News music and everything!"

Nick glanced over at the row of news crews set up in the parking lot. He waved.

"Cute," Monroe said dryly. "I'm going to go eat my ice cream and go to bed."

"Wait, wait. How did the date go?"

Hank leaned against the ambulance and looked pointedly at his watch.

Nick held up two fingers, asking for patience. He could _hear_ Monroe smiling over the phone and after what he'd just seen he needed something happy to go to bed on.

"Good. It was really, really….really good."

Nick chuckled at the dreamy tone. "Good for you."

"What? It wasn't like _that_!" Monroe protested.

"Never said a thing."

Monroe repeated desperately, "It _wasn't_ like that."

"Thanks for calling, buddy. Goodnight."

Monroe huffed and hung up.

"You take way too much pleasure in teasing that man," Hank commented.

"He loves it," Nick said. "And anyway, Rosalee's probably going to have to jump _him_ to get past first base."

Hank started. "Rosalee from…." He trailed off with a look Nick figured meant he was thinking about the night he'd basically been date raped by Adalind.

"That's her."

"Wow, she's hot." Hank frowned. "At least, from what I remember. She's dating the clock guy?"

"For Monroe values of dating," Nick said. He waved goodbye to the boys and Officer Melaine. They looked okay, calmer, and were talking which they hadn't done much of after getting out of the building. Ellie Melaine was a good choice to ride with them, halfway through her psych degree and planning on becoming a child therapist. "Let's get out of here. I need a shower like you wouldn't believe."

"Oh I believe," Hank said helpfully, waving a hand in front of his nose. "Where's your car?"

"Other side of those trees." Nick gestured wearily. "Why?"

Hank glanced towards the mass of cameras where Renard was giving an interview. "Because it's away from the press. Also, there's no way I'm letting you in my car smelling like that."

There had been some sort of…ichor in the cocoons, which he hadn't known about until he'd cut into the first one. Black and slimy and just _nasty_. He stank of it, and of smoke and blood. His shoes were going into the trash when he got home. He admitted with a sigh, "I have extra-large garbage bags in the Toyota."

"That's mildly disturbing," Hank said, "but also a good idea. And while we walk you can tell me what the hell happened tonight that I had to hear about it over the radio instead of _from my partner_."

Nick sighed again. Hank was angry, Monroe was angry, Renard was mildly upset but he'd probably have let it go by tomorrow, whereas he owed Hank a couple beers to go along with the explanation, and Monroe a lot more than that.

"A friend of the wife of the guy who repaired my refrigerator a few months ago knows the mother of one of the missing kids," he began and wished the explanation wasn't starting off like a crappy version of Gossip the board game.

() () ()

The next time Nick climbed the hill to visit Camden Wells he brought along two fried chicken dinners from the grocery store on Eleventh.

"You again," Wells muttered, spotting him before he even made it all the way into the clearing. He did a double take when he saw Nick's face. "You look like shit. Did you actually catch the guy or just let him beat you up and fly away?"

"It was one punch." And a wing to the face. "I bruise easily." Surprisingly it had hardly hurt this morning. Except for the ever present headache a couple of aspirin had taken care of most of the aches. Tomorrow, however, might be a different story.

Wells chuckled. "That must suck given your line of work. Either one of them." Today he was actually wearing a coat but the sleeves were pushed up and it was unbuttoned. Maybe it was an ogre thing not to feel the cold or the rain drooling down from heavy gray clouds.

"You have no idea," Nick mumbled and thought enviously of Hank's dark skin that hid bruises and blushes alike. "I brought chicken," he informed the other man and sat down on the same log he'd used during his previous trip.

"Well at least you're a considerate pest," Wells said happily, all traces of ogreish demeanor vanishing in the presence of friend chicken.

Nick laughed because Monroe would have disagreed with that so, so much. He unpacked the cartons, handing one across the fire. "I brought coffee too."

"You've just moved to the top of my list of favorite visitors," Wells said.

Nick laughed. "Wow. That was easy."

"Don't get too excited, Grimm, it's a short list." Wells opened the carton. "So…did you catch it?"

"One of them." Last he'd heard the wife was still missing. It was a fifty/fifty bet around the precinct whether she was an accomplice in the kidnappings or another victim. Nick was betting accomplice. The first two victims had been attacked one at a time, but Justin and Roland had been taken together. Salah must have had help to subdue and move both of them.

Wells looked at him long and hard. "Saw the fire last night," he grunted and tidily laid a napkin across his lap. "It was kind hard to miss the hundred or so emergency vehicles."

"They get a little worked up over four missing persons."

Wells made sound of agreement and paid attention to his food for a moment. "Not that I don't appreciate the home delivery, but what do you want?"

"It's not a bribe, it's a thank you." Nick took a bite of his own chicken. "Oh my God," he mumbled around a mouthful of deep-fried ambrosia, "this is the best chicken ever." And he wasn't just saying that because he'd had toast and juice for breakfast and missed lunch altogether to squeeze in a visit to the hospital before the scheduled debriefings at the precinct. How had he never known about this chicken before?

Wells smiled smugly. "Told ya."

"You weren't kidding."

There was crisp, fresh coleslaw, molasses baked beans, and a butterflake roll as well. For several minutes the only sound in the clearing was chewing, the pop of the fire, and faintly the sound of the local country radio station coming out of the cave.

"There you are," Wells said suddenly, confusing Nick until he realized the guy was talking to a small orange cat strolling over to join them. Wells peeled off a piece of chicken skin, dropping it on the ground in front of the cat.

"What's its name?" Nick asked.

"Dunno. Probably Sherbet or Tiger or some such thing. He's a timeshare cat."

"A timeshare cat?" Nick reached for his drink. "Don't think I've ever heard of that and Juliette—my ex— is a vet."

Wells waved toward the distant row of houses one the edge of the park. "He comes during the day fairly often but only spends the night on Fridays and Saturdays. I think his owners must go away for the weekend." He shrugged and handed over another bit of chicken. "Or maybe they're big partiers. I've thought about following him home one of these times just to see where he lives. It can't be too far away."

"Does he have a collar?"

"He does," Wells said. "No tags though."

The cat meowed loudly, voicing its opinion on the slowness of the chicken delivery service.

Wiping his hands thoroughly on a napkin, Nick dug out his notebook. "Write a note and put it on the collar."

Wells stared at him for a moment then took the notebook. "You're kind of strange, Grimm."

Nick pulled out a pen. "Not the first time I've heard that."

"Your ex?"

Nick shook his head. "She didn't know I was a Grimm. I tried to tell her but she…."

"Thought you were crazy?" Wells grunted and took the pen. "That why you broke up?"

"Partially," Nick said reluctantly and, because the world was evil like that, the radio started up with _Blue Christmas._ He was really starting to hate that song.

"Don't want to talk about it, eh."

Nick nodded; grateful Wells recognized it was still a painful subject.

"How long has it been?"

Or maybe not. "About a week," Nick said reluctantly.

"Fresh then." Wells nodded sympathetically. "Took me two years to get over my last ex. Now that was a fizzle."

Happy for a change of subject, Nick asked, "What happened?"

"She said I was trying to build our relationship with my psych degree instead of my heart." He shrugged expressively. "She was probably right."

"You have a degree in psychology?"

"Yep." Wells bent over the tablet, scribbling a few words out. "For all the good it did me."

"What specialty?" Nick had a sudden, brilliant idea.

Wells eyeballed him for a moment then said, "Trauma. Ironic really," he added, "that I ended up here."

Nick pried carefully. "Was it a medical discharge?"

"Yeah. Got back a couple months ago. Couldn't sleep in the house. Too many windows and doors, too many people around. So," he drawled and reached over to give the cat a head scratch, "I come here from time to time. My grandparents own the whole hill behind the park. Used to play here when I was a kid." Wells laughed at whatever he saw on Nick's face. "What? You thought it was because I'm siegbarste? Not _all_ ogres live in caves. What is this the dark ages?" He huffed in disgust. "My parents actually have a rather nice two-story just over the summit there."

Nick rolled his eyes. "I didn't think that." Much. His previous ogre experience hadn't included much time for small talk about living arrangements.

Although he had wondered how Wells stayed so clean, bearded but trimmed and tidy, his clothes wrinkled but recently washed. He obviously hadn't completely abandoned civilization. "And I may have lied to you."

Wells asked warily, "About what?"

"The chicken may have been a bribe after all. How would you feel about talking to a few people who recently suffered significant wesen-related trauma?"

"I don't really do that anymore," Wells hedged. He tore out a piece of paper and tossed the notebook and pen back across the fire. "Anyway doesn't the PPD have a therapist on retainer?"

"A non-wesen therapist isn't going to understand what they went through," Nick persisted. He'd talked to Collin Smith, who had unfortunately turned out to be quite human, for two hours this morning trying to reassure the man that, no, he wasn't crazy. "They need someone who knows about the wesen world."

Wells got a weirdly resigned look on his face. "You do this a lot?"

"What's that?"

"Coerce total strangers into helping you." He didn't seem too upset about it, more confused that he was even in this conversation. "You pulled a gun on me yesterday and now I'm helping you out."

"No." Except for Monroe and Rosalee and Bud. And Mandy the seelengut at the courthouse. "Maybe. Does that mean you'll do it?"

Wells snorted. "I suppose if I don't you'll be back tomorrow."

Nick raised his eyebrows expectantly and tried out the hopeful smile that always worked on Hank.

"Yes, God, yes, I'll talk to them. Don't beam at me like that. I've already lost partial hearing, now you're trying to blind me too?"

"How's tomorrow?" Nick asked, secretly wondering if Monroe had distant family in the siegbarste genus. Put the man in a cardigan and cords and they could be snarky, mismatched cousins. "I can pick you up."

"Tomorrow is fine, but I'll drive myself. I have a couple errands to run anyway."

Nick beamed at him again.

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks for dinner. Goodnight. Go away now before I agree to anything else like giving you my first born child." And as Nick was headed out he heard a muttered, "Strangest Grimm ever."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Nick yelled back up the hill.

"Go away!"

TBC

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Expecting massive storms the next couple days and I have to take the computer in to fix the blue screen of death but hopefully the next chapter will be up on schedule. Hopefully.


	5. Chapter 5

**WARNINGS: I have nothing new to report. Except another big ol' cliffhanger. Bwahahaha. **

() () ()

Bookqueen604 said _P.S. - Just curious - how is Nick leaving Juliette going to effect the whole Juliette/Renard obsession plot?_

It won't be directly mentioned but it will be dealt with. In a way. I can't tell you more because it would ruin the surprise.

() () ()

The next day, Nick was considering locations for a tripwire on the stairs when someone knocked on the front door. Thinking it was Monroe or Hank, he creaked his way up off the floor, abandoning the power drill on the hardwood. The bruises and sore muscles that hadn't hurt much yesterday, had stiffened to the point that any time he stopped moving for more than a few minutes it was an effort to start again.

The guy on the other side of the door definitely wasn't Monroe. Too thin for one thing and very, very blonde and when Nick opened the door the guy looked him up and down and demanded to know, "Where's Bruiser?"

Nick raised his eyebrows and gave the guy a look over of his own. Sallow skin, lank hair, bad acne, bad teeth. "Why do you think I would know?"

"This is his house." Guy had a twitch that made his whole head jerk.

"Was his house. I'm the new tenant."

It took the guy a long, long moment to process that. "Where'd he go?" Twitch.

Nick leaned on the doorframe. "He took a trip down south." All the way to the state pen.

Twitchy scratched his head. "Well, how long is he going to be gone?"

"Fifteen to twenty."

A familiar vehicle pulled up to the curb behind what must be Twitchy's beat up, 1980's, baby blue Pontiac Firebird.

"Who's taking over his business?" Twitchy wanted to know.

Nick watched the car park and the occupant emerge. "I have no idea," he said absently, "but when you find out, let me know."

The click of heels on concrete finally penetrated and Twitchy realized they weren't alone anymore. Nick told him, "You should leave now," and forgot about him in favor of watching Juliette come up the walk. She was wrapped up warmly in her favorite coat and knee high boots and carrying a shopping bag from their usual grocery store.

Twitchy retreated, giving Juliette an admiring look as she passed by. She smiled politely at him and Nick decided he probably couldn't kill the guy: there was a lot there that deserved admiring. He took a moment to note Twitchy's license plate as he pulled away from the curb, squealing the nearly bald tires, before turning his attention back to Juliette, suddenly conscious of the bruises on his face, the fact that he hadn't combed his hair that morning, the sawdust and paint on his sweatshirt and jeans. "Hi."

Juliette stopped at the bottom of the single stair, clasping the shopping bag handles in both hands, staring at him with wide, concerned eyes. "Oh my God, are you alright? I saw you on TV, but it didn't look that bad."

He shrugged and said, "It always looks worse the day after," instead of the dozen other things that bubbled up in his mouth. "Do you want to come in? I have coffee on if you want a cup." He liked to make a pot before Monroe came over just to hear him disparage its parentage, its roasting company, and the pot it was brewed in.

She smiled and brushed her hair back and it struck him that she was a little bit nervous too. "I'd love one, but I'm on my way into work. I just wanted to drop this off." She held out the bag and after a moment of staring he remembered that he should actually reach out and take it.

Their hand brushed and he felt the familiar warm rush, ridiculously aware that he was blushing like a teenager. "Thanks."

"It's just a few things I found around the house that I thought you might miss. I mean I didn't recognize them so they must be yours, right?"

The bag held clothing, a few CD's, a couple envelopes, and a novel he'd been halfway through and lost somewhere in the bedroom.

Juliette explained, gesturing at the bag, "The clothing was in the wash and there's some mail in there that came yesterday."

"Thanks, I've been looking for those socks."

He wanted to ask if she'd decided to sell the house, but if she hadn't yet realized his name was on the mortgage alongside hers, he wasn't going to bring it up. He poked through the bag a bit more to kill time while he tried to think of what to say. One of the letters had the Portland University logo on it. Alumni donation time again.

"Nick, I am so sorry."

He looked up, frowning. "Sorry?"

"For the way I treated you, for making you feel...uncomfortable. For…everything."

She was suddenly close to tears and he wanted to hug her and explain everything until she understood. "Juliette, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. This—this whole thing is just—" His fault, an accident, a series of disastrous events that shouldn't even be considered for a movie because the plot would be too unbelievable. He couldn't pick just one. "It's not your fault," he finished lamely.

Rain started to sprinkle down, tapping on the tin roof and the waterproof coating on Juliette's jacket.

"Are you doing alright? Is the alarm working okay?" Was she using it? Every single night. Had anyone been poking around, asking about him?

"It's great. Thank you for having it installed." She smiled again, but this time it was sad and she backed up a couple steps. "I should go or I'm going to be late."

"Okay." He lifted the bag. "Thanks again."

Behind her Monroe's yellow beetle pulled into the space recently vacated by Twitchy's firebird.

Juliette took another step backwards, half turning away. "It was nice to see you again, Nick. Hello, Monroe. Merry Christmas."

"Um, hi." Monroe shifted off the sidewalk to let her pass, shooting a confused and anxious glance at Nick. "Merry Christmas to you to."

She waved before she drove away in a flash of windshield wipers and taillights.

Monroe stopped at the bottom of the stairs, asking in a voice that worried and hopeful at the same time, "What was she doing here?"

Nick held up the bag. "Came by to drop a few things off." He moved back inside the house, clearing the doorway for Monroe. Before he forgot, he took a moment to jot down Twitchy's license plate. He'd run it when he was back at work next week, see if anything interesting came of it. The chances he would see the guy again were about somewhere between zero and zilch, but it was a good idea to check anyway.

"She seems," Monroe started slowly, "good."

He smiled, agreeing before he even thought about it. "Yeah, she seems better."

"And you seem…" he paused, "oddly okay."

Nick snorted a laugh. Actually he felt pretty good. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was getting his socks back. "So…I've been thinking about that extra room."

"Okay, man, radical change of subject noted and accepted."

Off the living room was another room that Nick supposed had once been a den or library. Like the rest of the house the carpet had been ripped out and disposed of after the last tenant, revealing an ocean of hardwood flooring. Waving a hand at the empty space he said, "I'm thinking training room."

"What like weight training?"

"That too." He'd picked up a used treadmill from a FOR SALE flyer on the corkboard at work. It would fit nicely in front of the windows for days that were just too rainy to go outside. But he was thinking of something more active. "One of the civilian volunteers at the precinct used to be a stuntman down in California. Taught actors to do fights scenes." The man had some enthralling stories of his younger and not so younger days. "I told him my Aunt left me a collection of antique weapons and I wanted to learn how to use them. He's willing to give lessons." He cast a sly look at Monroe. "You wouldn't be interested, would you?"

Monroe lit up like a Christmas tree. "Would I? Weapon's training. Do you even need to ask?"

Score! No more slogging through the woods, getting leaf mold in strange and unusual places. "Great. Hank wants to play too." He'd actually invited Monroe over to see if the blutbad could find his tripwire and window alarms with his wesen-enhanced senses, but first, "Hey, do you want some coffee? I just made a pot." He headed for the kitchen already smiling at the huffing diatribe starting up behind him.

() () ()

"What's this?" Nick asked reaching for the top paper of a stack of neon flyers Wu had just dropped on his desk.

"Invitations to your housewarming party," Wu said as he moved on.

"What? Wait. Since when am I having a housewarming party?"

Wu walked backwards as he talked, wisely moving out of range. "Since we gave up waiting for you to plan it yourself."

"I've only been in the place two weeks," Nick complained, eyeing the disturbingly large number of flyers Wu still had in his hand.

"And by the time we have the party it will be over four. That's a month. More than enough time to get everything unpacked." Wu paused. "You do have everything unpacked, right?"

"Yes," Nick said defensively. "Almost." He may have gotten slightly distracted over home security but that wasn't even the issue here. He sighed out loud as he realized he was going to have to hide a lot of things that had nothing to do with porn. "I…don't have enough chairs," he added lamely.

"So we'll bring chairs. There's a sign-up sheet of food and drink. Annnnd Ripley is bringing that chrome monstrosity of a barbeque he got last summer." Wu smirked at him. "No excuses," he said, pointing the flyers at Nick sternly.

"No excuses," Nick promised. Guilt, he decided, was a horrible thing. It had been months since Wu had ended up in the hospital after his brush with Adalind's love spell. He seemed to have recovered from the incident with no lasting harm but Nick still _wished_ he could explain. That he could let Wu know his temporary eating disorder hadn't been caused by an inability to cope, just a witch with an overachievers complex.

Yeah, that conversation would go _so_ well.

As soon as Wu was out of sight he flopped his forehead onto his desk, smack onto the pile of neon, and wondered if he could get away with calling in sick two hours into his shift. God, he could actually _see_ the bright pink paper through his eyelids.

"It's too early in the morning for that," Hank commented as he dropped into his chair. He slid something onto Nick's desk, close enough to his ear he could hear the squeak of plastic and asked, "What's that?"

Nick lifted his head a bare centimeter and slid a flyer free, holding it in Hank's direction until he felt it taken, then blindly searched for the cup Hank had dropped off. It was cold in his hand, which was odd, but maybe Hank had been in the mood for iced coffee. Man had a fierce sweet tooth for caramel macchiatos that he blamed on his last ex-wife. He brought the cup down under the desk so he could get to the straw without further movement.

"Oh, the housewarming. I'm signing up to bring hummus and chips."

Nick sat up abruptly, then slumped back in his chair, dizzy from the sudden change of elevation or possibly the revelation that his partner was in league with the party planners. Pain throbbed in his temples at the movement. He'd had two glorious, headache-free days following Juliette's visit last week before they'd returned even worse than before. At least the bruising on his face was mostly gone, just a little yellow left on the cheekbone.

"You knew about this—" he waved a flyer accusingly, "—this _invasion_?"

"Sure," Hank said easily. "Wu's only asked, like, thirty times if you're settled in to your new place yet. What did you think that meant?"

"That he wanted to know if I'd gotten settled into my new place," Nick said miserably. In hindsight he should have seen this coming. It was entirely possible Wu had been responsible for the helpful brochure he'd found on his desk this morning titled: _Feeling Down? Depression and You._

Hank snorted his thoughts on that one. "It's a party, Nick. What's the problem?"

"I don't know," he said peevishly, shrugging off Hank's cocked eyebrow of disbelief.

"I think I do." Hank leaned forward in his chair. "Having a housewarming party means you're moving on."

"I moved _out_," Nick objected. "That's pretty much the definition of moving on."

"There's telling yourself you've moved on and then there's having the rest of the world smack you in the face with it," Hank said sagely.

Nick stared at him for a moment because, unfortunately, that made sense. Then he finally _looked_ at the cup chilling his hand. "What the hell is that?" It was not coffee. It was a not-coffee that was a weird lavender with streaks of red that looked disturbingly like blood.

"Smoothie," Hank said, holding up his own orange and green smoothie. "You've been looking a little run down lately. Figured you could use a break from the caffeine."

"It's purple."

"Drink it," Hank ordered. "Blackberry acai. Very healthy. Full of antioxidants."

Nick stared at him again. "Who are you and what have you done with my partner?"

Hank flipped him off and went back to whatever he'd been working on pre smoothie run.

It was a good smoothie. Dammit. Nick sighed and took another sip and logged into this email to see if he'd gotten a reply from the Nez Perce County Department of Corrections on whether they had a current address for the mother-in-law of the perp in one of their active cases. He had a feeling the guy had skipped town and was headed for Idaho to hide out with family on the reservation.

Juliette made good smoothies. She'd loved to drag him to the farmer's markets on summer mornings for the fruit and…and he wasn't going to think about long, warm evenings at the kitchen table slicing peaches and pitting cherries, leaving sticky fingerprints on each other, and not actually finishing the job until several hours later.

Sergeant Franco swung by, tapping Nick's desk with a folder to get his attention. "You look down." He stuck a Post-it note to Nick's shoulder. "How about a visit to the hospital to cheer you up? We've got a wandering Jane Doe at St. Vincent's."

"Awwww, you do the nicest things, Franco." Seizing the Post-it, he read what little info there was. "I don't care what Hank says about you."

"Oh yeah, what's Hank been saying about me?" Franco asked, crossing his arms and looming threateningly.

Nick stood, grinning at the glare Hank directed his way, and grabbed his coat off the back of the chair.

"That you used to be such a nice boy," Hank said easily, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed by, "until you started hanging out with Wu and the other sergeants."

"It's true," Nick told him solemnly. "They've corrupted you."

Franco grinned wickedly. "You have no idea," he said mysteriously and took himself off to do Sergeanty things.

"You shouldn't encourage him," Hank said as they trotted down the stairs.

Nick waved the purple smoothie at him. He'd really been looking forward to coffee.

"Uh huh," Hank said unimpressed, "and how is that delicious _and_ healthy drink your incredibly thoughtful, _caring_ partner brought you?"

Nick scowled. "Delicious," he admitted reluctantly.

"And…?"

"And healthy."

Hank looked smug all the way to the car. "Don't spill that on my upholstery, man," he warned as the engine turned over and the radio kicked on.

"_I'll have a blue Christmas without you."_

Nick reached over and turned it down.

"Hey," Hank complained mildly. "That was the Beach Boys."

Nick muttered, "I'm starting to think that song is out to get me."

Hank chuckled. "I know what you mean. I swear when Sandra moved out every T V show, every song, every piece of junk mail, even the _billboards_ were about divorce. Every case that came across my desk was a break up gone bad. And that point I'd been moved up to homicides so bad was really _bad_."

"Hank, have I ever told you that you're awesome at cheering a guy up?"

Hank looked pleased. "No, I think I'd remember that."

"It's true. Your stories are so horrible, they make me feel better."

"So glad I can help," Hank said flatly, giving him a narrow eyed look.

Nick grinned. He did appreciate the attempt and, really, he wasn't doing so badly. The closer they got to Christmas the busier work would get, setting up a new house had kept his evenings busy, and weekends were full of jogging, evenings at the gym with Hank, woodland workouts with Monroe, studying his Grimm books, or helping Rosalee at the shop. He had about five minutes first thing in the morning to be melancholy before getting into the shower.

It took less time to get to the hospital than it did to actually track down the correct room. They found the right floor and the right door just as the doctor was coming out of it. "I take it you're here about our Jane Doe," the man said. "Doctor Frank Branch."

Branch, Nick thought was appropriate. The doctor was tall and lean as a tree limb, with the weathered skin and deep tan of someone who spent a lot of time in the sun. A lot of vacations, Nick guessed. He didn't have the fake bake look.

They introduced themselves and shook hands. Formalities out of the way Nick asked, "How's the patient?"

"Aside from a total loss of memory, she's perfectly healthy," Branch said. "No sign of injury. Nothing showed up on the MRI. She doesn't have so much as a bruise."

"Memory loss?" Hank asked. He shot a worried look at Nick.

"Complete amnesia," Branch confirmed.

God, it couldn't be Juliette. One of his worst and more repetitive nightmares was finding out that Adalind's potion wasn't finished with Juliette. "She's not a redhead, is she?"

"No," Branch said, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. "Were you expecting a redhead?"

Nick shook his head, breathing out a noise of relief. "It's just been that kind of year."

"What about signs of drug use?" Hank asked, drawing the doctor's attention back to him.

"We've sent blood work down to see if there's any foreign substance which could account for the amnesia, but at this point I think you're going to need a different type of doctor."

"You think it may be psychological?" Nick asked.

The doctor shrugged. "We'll keep looking, but so far there isn't any medical reason for it."

"Can we see her?" Hank asked.

"Go on in, but keep it as short as you can. She was pretty upset earlier."

"Will do, doc." When the doctor had departed, Hank motioned Nick to go ahead. "After you."

"It's your turn," Nick countered. He'd talked down the last hysterical freak out and, man, a three-hundred pound guy who'd been a rodeo clown in a previous profession should not use that many tissues.

"Uh uh. I dealt with the Presbie Case." Hank made a face. "I had to get my jacket dry cleaned. This one's all yours."

"I took that Lebbit woman. She—" he glanced around and lowered his voice, "—she wasn't even human." The unidentifiable substances left on his shoulder had been many and multi-colored.

"That was _before_ that whole Sikorsky mess," Hank pointed out ruthlessly.

Damn. He was right about that. Nick spent a good twenty seconds trying to come up with another example then gave up and tapped on the door. "Ma'am. Portland Police." He heard the faint invitation to come in and opened the door. "Portland Police," he repeated. "Detective Nick Burkhardt and—"

And he ran out of words after that, brain forgetting how to form them, as the woman sitting on the bed looked up. Hank ran into his back as he stopped dead because his legs seemed to forget what they were doing as well.

"Geeze, Nick, give a guy some warning," Hank complained then he must have looked at the patient as well because Nick felt him suck in a sharp breath. "Adalind."

TBC

_**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**_ I know, I know, bad Squirrel. Hee, hee.

Hopefully I've responded to everyone's lovely reviews. For those of you who are Guests since I can't respond directly to you I'll just say thank you, thank you, thank you for your kind words.


	6. Chapter 6

**WARNINGS: Alludes to non-con as you saw on the show, Violence, violence, violence. I know, finally! Nickwhump! Swearing. Possibly a very, very tiny cliffhanger.**

"I can't be involved in this," Hank said the moment they were back in the hallway with the door closed. He was sweating and his hands were shaking a little and Nick pulled him down the hall and shoved him down in a plastic chair before someone decided he needed to be admitted for emergency sedation.

Nick nodded. "You should go. Update the Captain. I'll stay and take a statement."

Hank looked at him for a long, long moment. "You going to be okay alone in there?"

He didn't ask if Nick was going to be okay with not punching Adalind in the face the moment he walked back into that room and Nick was grateful for that. He wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't be lying if he said yes.

"Yeah. Yeah. I need to find out what's really going on here. We both know amnesia _isn't_ impossible."

Hank scrubbed his fingers over his face and hair and took a couple deep, slow breaths. "Or she's faking it like a pro," he muttered.

"Or if she's faking it," Nick agreed.

Hank dug his car keys out of his pocket and handed them to Nick. "I'll catch a ride back." He still looked shaky and Nick was glad he wasn't going to try to drive. "Don't scratch her."

"Damn." Nick rolled his eyes and headed back down the hall, walking backwards the first few steps. "I'd planned on driving through the gravel pit on the way back." As Hank narrowed his eyes and glared at him, Nick smiled cheerfully. "Don't worry!" He spread his arms and gave Hank a big grin. "I'll treat her as if she were my own."

He wasn't far enough down the hall that he didn't hear Hank mutter, "That's what worries me."

"Go," Nick waved him off. "Vamoose. Scram."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, Nick," he said seriously, "you be careful."

Nick nodded earnestly. He wasn't about to forget that Adalind Schade was capable of _anything_.

Except, twenty minutes later, he was forced to admit it was increasingly likely she wasn't even capable of remembering her own name. Escaping into the hall, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a minute to catch his breath in sheer relief to be away from that woman.

That—God!—that was going on the list of most awkward interviews ever. Possibly number two because that interview with the naked guy and the snake…awkward.

Adalind hadn't shown a flicker of recognition towards him and for all his natural talent at reading people, for all he was _looking_ for any sign one way or the other, he'd walked out of that room unable to swear that she was lying when she'd said, "I was standing on the street and I realized that I had no idea where I was or how I'd gotten there. Then I realized I didn't know how to get home or where home even was."

Adalind had been relieved to find out someone recognized her, ecstatic to learn her name and address. She wanted to know how they knew her, of course, and Nick hadn't known what to say. Finally he settled on sketching a story about the investigation of the death of two of her co-workers and her own attempted murder.

She'd asked, looking horrified, "Why were they trying to kill me?"

He'd stuttered through a dozen answers for that but he finally settled on, "You're a lawyer."

He'd kept waiting for that familiar, smug little smirk to make an appearance. Kept waiting for _something_ to prove she was faking. But she'd just looked small and scared and by the time he wrapped up the interview and got out, he was actually feeling guilty about wanting to drop her off a pier and never look back.

"Hello again, Detective."

Nick rolled his head against the door to look the man in a white coat coming up the hall. It took him a second before he remembered the doctor from, ironically enough, the first time he'd met Adalind face to face. "Hey, doc." He held out a hand. "I'm surprised you remember me."

The doctor smiled wryly. "It's not every day I get a patient poisoned with spider venom. Your case was quite memorable."

"That's actually very reassuring." He tried to remember the guy's name and ended up reading it off his ID tag. Broncheau, M.D.

"How are you doing? No lasting side effects?"

"No, nothing…." He thought about that and revised it to, "Well, up until recently. I've been having headaches. A lot of headaches."

Broncheau frowned. "How often is a lot?"

"Three or four times a week, usually lasting all day and sometimes through the night."

The doctor started walking and Nick fell in beside him. "Any other symptoms?"

"There have been a couple dizzy spells. Just when I stand up too fast. Nothing big." He shrugged. "It's probably just stress. But with my Aunt being sick…."

"Does your family have a history of cancer? Mother, father, grandparents?"

Nick shook his head sheepishly. "I don't really know. My parents died when I was young. Car accident, not illness." It hadn't occurred to him that he should have asked his mom for a list of family ailments. "I don't remember my Aunt ever mentioning that sort of thing, but she, ah, didn't talk about the family much. I might be able to find out." If Kelly was checking her email.

"Have you been to see your regular physician?"

He had one, but she'd been Juliette's doctor long before he'd come into the picture and continuing to see her after the breakup would feel a bit awkward. "I'm looking for a new one."

"Tell you what," said Broncheau, checking his watch, "I'm back to back appointments today but if you have time tomorrow I can fit you in for a checkup. I can send you down to get blood drawn right now. It will just take a few minutes."

"That would be great, doc." He followed the doctor to the front desk to set up a time then headed downstairs to the labs. The phlebotomist was quick and efficient and every time Nick looked at him he thought _heron_.

He wondered, as he watched the vials being changed out with sharp, spare movements, if the guy was wesen. He was beginning to understand why it was common courtesy to perform a little woge when doing business for the first time, but he was kind of glad it didn't come up while he had a needle stuck in his arm.

"All done." A cotton ball was pressed to his inner elbow. "Hold that for a moment, please, my tape seems to have grown legs and run away."

Nick looked around idly, he'd been in this position often enough the place was familiar. Across the room was a glass-front refrigerator full of blood vials waiting to be processed. Glancing around to make sure he was alone, he crossed the room in two quick strides and opened the door. Doe, Jane was right in front. Nick had spent a few moments with the nurse updating Adalind's file, but it apparently hadn't made it this far.

By the time the phlebotomist returned with several rolls of tape Nick was back in the chair, a vial of Adalind's blood in his pocket.

"Here we go." A strip of tape was expertly applied.

"That's very…pink."

Phlebotomist grinned. "We also have a lovely green. It's very Christmassy." He held up a roll that was equally neon with the added bonus of sparkly snowflakes.

"Pink is fine. Thanks." He had no intention of leaving it on for everyone at the precinct to see anyway.

The drive back was slow and extra cautious. For all his joking, this car was Hank's baby and there was no way Nick was going to be the first one to put a scratch on it.

Hank spotted him the moment he set foot on the precinct floor. He'd been watching and, judging from the cell phone he casually slid back onto his desk, about one minute away from calling for a check-in.

"Nick," Franco called, passing by with a box under each arm, "darts tonight."

"Maybe," he hedged. Right now he wanted dinner, a hot shower, and bed not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately he had a debrief to do with Renard, Adalind's condo to search, a headache that throbbed every time he changed altitude, and he felt like he was due a nervous breakdown any time now.

"Don't let us down, man. We need your aim."

"I'll think about it," he promised as he dropped into his desk chair. He tossed the car keys to Hank. "Not a scratch." He paused, affecting just the right amount of dismay. "But there is a _bit_ of a dent from the cyclist."

Hank's eyes went big. "_Cyclist_!" he squeaked out. "What cyclist?"

He tried to keep up the pretense, he truly did, but Hank's wide-eyed panic was too much.

"You," Hank growled, pointing the pointy finger of doom at him, "are a dead man."

"You'd miss me," Nick said, grinning and making a mental note to buy lunch next time.

"Like a hole in the head," Hank muttered, but the corners of his mouth were twitching. "What did you find out?"

"Not much." Nick spun his chair and saw that, unfortunately, Renard's door was wide open. He waved Hank that direction. Better to do this once and get it over with.

() () ()

"Hey," Monroe complained mildly as Nick collapsed on his couch in a thumping slump so profound it shook the end table, "watch the furniture, man. That couch has survived too many years to be done in by a Grimm-wrecking ball."

"Sorry." Nick squinted open his eyes to see the beer bottle Monroe was holding in front of his face. He took it and pressed it against his forehead. "Have I told you lately how wonderful you are?"

"Not nearly enough. Headache?"

Nick exhaled and slowly dropped his head back against the cushions. "It was a hell of a day." His jacket was wet from the drizzle that had been oozing down all damn day, dampening the couch, but he couldn't find the energy to take it off.

"I've still got some of that headache powder Rosalee gave me for the Fourth of July," Monroe volunteered, trundling off to the kitchen. "Don't get me wrong," he called back, "I love the Fourth. The food, the fireworks, the rampant patriotism."

A minute later he came back with a glass in his hand. "But the booms and bangs at all hours of the night do not make for a happy blutbad," he finished. Plucking the beer from Nick's hand he replaced with the glass containing about an inch of bright red water.

Nick eyed the glass suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Um...probably best if you don't know exactly," Monroe hedged. He patted Nick's knee and said cheerfully, "Drink up."

He swirled the liquid a couple times, weighing the pulsing pain against taking some weird wesen medicine, then downed it like a shot, making a face and reached hurriedly for the beer.

"Imagine that with blutbad taste buds." Monroe exchanged the glass for the bottle again, blatantly dropping a coaster on the table before he returned to the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge for himself on his way back. "So how was your evening?"

Nick slouched deeper into the couch, gazing into the fire. "Adalind Schade is in the hospital."

The couch jolted as Monroe sat down suddenly. "Adalind Schade. As in the one who poisoned Juliette?"

"Yep."

"Did you…?

Nick shook his head, rolling it along the couch fractionally. "Hank and I were called down for a Jane Doe suffering from, get this, _amnesia_."

Monroe almost did a spit take. "No shit?" He wiped at his mouth with a sleeve. "Is she faking it?"

"Not as far as I could tell."

"Wow, that's just…_wow_."

"Pretty much."

Monroe took a long drink, swallowed, and stared silently at the fire for a moment before he said, "Talk about karma biting you in the ass. Who do you think did it?"

"I have no idea," Nick admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. "Maybe she was screwing around with something and it backfired on her. Maybe whoever she's working for decided she knew too much." Nick sighed deeply and let his eyes drift closed. "Hank excused himself from the case. I probably should too." But he wanted to keep an eye on the situation and Renard hadn't pushed for it. "Not that there's much of a case anyway. There's no _provable_ crime," he added bitterly. "If witchcraft was something I could use in court…."

"Adalind would be enjoying a long stay at the women's penitentiary," Monroe finished for him.

Nick spooled out the whole story of his afternoon's investigation. Adalind's condo had been intact, the door unlocked, no sign of forced entry. It was an upscale address, quality alarm system, neighbors who hadn't seen or heard a thing, and an interior that looked like a decorator had picked it out. Clean, gleaming, perfect, sterile, lonely.

It was all surprisingly normal. No spell books open on the kitchen island or potions bubbling on the stove. Her purse had been sitting untouched on a table near the door. There had been two wine glasses on the counter, each smudged with a different shade of lipstick, the other apparently untouched. He was assuming work related, doubting Adalind had many female friends. She wouldn't stand for the competition.

"I took a sample of the wine for Rosalee. Maybe she can run some tests on it. Find something the lab would miss."

He didn't say that he'd spent half the afternoon daydreaming about that long weekend last year he and Juliette had spent locked in the house. The second wine glass on Adalind's counter had been smeared with the same color lipstick Juliette had taken great pleasure in getting all sorts of places that weekend. It had taken three washes to get all of it out of the sheets. He figured Monroe really didn't need to know about that.

Lately everything reminded him of Juliette, of days spent lounging around, of days when they barely saw each other for ten minutes in the morning. He tried to remember if he'd been this distracted the last time he broke up with someone, but the girl before Juliette had been so long ago he could barely recall her.

Monroe blew out a breath. "Even if the lab did find something what are the chances they would be able to recognize it. Remember all the tests they did on Juliette when she was in the hospital?"

"Speaking of that, there was no sign a cat had _ever_ lived in Adalind's place. No toys, no litter box, no half used cat food bag in the cabinet." He'd gone through the bedroom, bathroom, closets. "No hair. That cat she used to infect Juliette must have been bought especially for that purpose."

Which meant Adalind had been a big lying liar when she said she had a pet. Shocking.

"Hank must have mentioned Juliette was a vet," he mused out loud. Adalind had probably Googled notable cats and memorized the information for their double date then actually gone so far as to track down a cat that matched that description when she needed a carrier for her zaubertrank. Nick smiled humorlessly. "On top of everything else she's done, I suppose that shouldn't surprising."

"Well, hexenbeist aren't exactly known for their compassionate and gentle nature," Monroe said dryly. "Or truthfulness."

Nick snorted. "I actually came over here for a reason besides passing on Grimm news." He dug a folded, crumpled, day-glo green flyer out of his pocket, holding it out until Monroe took it. "You're officially invited."

"Ummm…." Monroe began unfolding the paper. "To what exactly?"

"Housewarming." Nick shifted a little, moving easier, the tension in his neck and shoulders loosening. "Apparently we're barbequing. It's not until after New Year's though."

"Oh. That sounds…interesting." Monroe attempted to conceal his horror at the very idea, but he was quite possibly the worst liar Nick had ever met.

"You don't have to come. I just wanted you to know that you're invited."

He watched Monroe struggle to find a polite way to say he'd rather not spend the day surrounded by cooking meat and a large number of people known for carrying firearms. "I would go but, uh, you know, the barbeque. Not so good for vegetarian blutbaden."

"'s okay," Nick assured him.

Monroe left the couch for the straight backed chair he'd been sitting in when Nick had arrived. Setting his beer on the little side table, he wiped his hands on his jeans and pulled his cello into position, futzing with the tuning. "What are you going to do?" he asked softly. "About Adalind, I mean."

"I'm going by the Spice Shop tomorrow and ask Rosalee if there's some way to tell with absolute certainty that she's not faking. Beyond that," he paused, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it slowly, "I guess that will depend on Adalind."

"Gee, that's not ominous or anything."

"Truthfully I'm…regretting that I didn't kill her when I had the chance." He gazed thoughtfully at the fire. "That night…. I thought about it while I was driving out there. I thought about what I would do if it worked. Or if it didn't."

He would have done whatever was necessary to save Hank and if that meant digging a hole in the woods at the end of the night, well, he'd started carrying a shovel in his vehicle at all times.

"I don't want to be like the other Grimms," he hastened to add. "Not looking to start a murderous rampage. I'm just getting sick of my friends getting hurt because I hesitated."

"Hesitating is not always a bad thing," Monroe said.

Nick shook his head. "You guys have been through a lot of shit because of what I am. I'm getting tired of it."

Monroe didn't say anything to that. He set bow to strings and began to play in earnest, something Nick was rarely privy to. It was nice. Relaxing.

He should get up and drive home before he fell asleep, send an email to his mom asking for a family medical history, eat something, but he was just so…comfortable. The fire was warm against his face and legs and whatever ghastly ingredients made up that red powder were just…awesome. For the first time in days his head wasn't hurting, his shoulders were unclenching, and his neck didn't feel like someone had tightened down the muscles with a ratchet wrench.

The piece Monroe was playing sounded very familiar. He listened, working to place it, before finally giving up and asking, "What is that song?"

Monroe said excitedly, "Oh, I'm trying something new. _Blue Christmas_. I came across the sheet music in the thrift store while we were shopping for furniture and thought I'd give it a try and _why_ are you _laughing_?"

Nick shook his head. He put his bottle on the table, almost missing as he dissolved into helpless giggles.

"What?" Monroe huffed. "It wasn't _that_ bad!"

Nick gasped, "No. No." He pressed his face into the couch cushions, shoulders shaking. "No, it was fine," he said when he surfaced again. "It was great. I'm just—" A fresh wave of laughter rolled over him, sending him back into the cushion face first.

"Take your time," Monroe said tartly.

Nick waved a hand, chugged the last two inches of beer, and collapsed back against the couch. "It's not that. I'm being stalked by the most depressing Christmas song ever. Everywhere I go, there it is."

Monroe gave him a doubtful look. "I think you had better sleep here tonight." He stood and headed for the chest where he kept extra blankets. "Also, _not_ the most depressing Christmas song ever. There's that one by John Lennon. I mean you think you're going along just fine, keeping out of trouble, helping the local Grimm save the occasional person, sending in your monthly donations to the Humane Society and Save the Children, and then holidays roll around and _So This Is Christmas_ comes on the radio and _bang! _Instant guilt trip. Mother Teresa would feel inadequate listening to _that_ song. And that's just the beginning. Have you ever _listened_ to _Christmas Shoes_?"

Nick grinned at him.

"I'm serious. I could compile a list of tear-jerkers that would have you going through Kleenex like an eichhörnchen goes through nuts."

"Thanks for the offer, Monroe. " He pushed to his feet, grabbing both bottles for a trip to the recycling bin by the kitchen door. "But I should head home."

Monroe waited until he returned to the living room before tossing a quilt onto the back of the couch.

Nick insisted, "I'm fine. Really."

Monroe added a meaningful pillow.

"It's not that far of a drive. Thanks though." He escaped out the front door and into his vehicle. The streets were shiny wet and gleaming with reflections and thankfully mostly empty. He must have been more tired than he thought because he completely missed his turn and ended up in front of a familiar house.

Against his better judgment he parked in the space between two lampposts on the street opposite the house, absently turning his rearview mirror an inch to redirect the headlights of the car that pulled in a few spaces back.

He'd spent enough time in Patrol that it was habit to notice the front left headlight of the other car was dimmer than the right. Close to burning out, the left bulb should have been changed when they did the right side, which was bright and shiny and new and reflecting into his eyes like a World War II anti-aircraft spotlight.

It also reminded him that he needed to drop the Toyota off for maintenance. Somehow he'd gotten over the mileage for an oil change by two hundred, give or take. Perkins in Motor Pool reserved special looks of displeasure for anyone over three hundred and if you went over five she added in the pursed lips and head shake of disappointment.

The lights were on in the kitchen and the living room. Juliette was standing at the sink, phone tucked between ear and shoulder, drying a plate. Her hair was scraped back in a tight ponytail and she looked tired but she was smiling at whatever was being said on the phone. Smiling and happy in a way he hadn't seen in a long time.

A shock of homesickness clogged up his throat. He missed the weirdest little things like sharing dish duty, grocery shopping together, listening to her thumping around upstairs looking for a lost shoe. Missed coming home to someone, and listening as she told him her day and the people she worked with, and letting her talk him into going to a dinner party at some friend or another when he'd really rather stay home. Missed _her_.

Shifting into Drive, he pulled slowly away from the curb. The aching loneliness was still there, was going to be there for a while, lodged in his chest like a lump of granite, but watching her laugh at whatever was being said on the phone, happy and _safe_, eased it just a little. He'd made the right choice and that was worth a little heartache on his part.

Two blocks later, he made the turn to head for his new place and noticed the car with the dim left headlight made the made the turn as well. It followed him through the stop light, making the left onto Seventh, trailing sedately one car behind.

He took the next right, away from his destination, onto an empty side street and watched the rearview mirror.

Nothing.

At the next stop sign he took a long pause, scrubbing both hands over his face and through his hair until it stood up like he'd been jogging in a hurricane. He needed sleep. He _did_ sleep, but he woke up as tired and achy as when he went to bed. He rolled the window down hoping the fresh air would clear his head and hit the blinker. "Fucking paranoid," he muttered to himself.

Only, two streets later, the same dim left headlight was back in his mirrors. Damn, maybe not so paranoid after all.

One more random turn and he'd convinced himself of it. Pulling out his cell, he held it for a long, long moment, mulling the idea of _not_ calling over in his head. If he did call he would be breaking his own promise to himself to stop involving other people in his Grimm work. If he _didn't_ call, and Hank found out later, the lecture he'd gotten on the drive home from MacGruder Park would be nothing compared to this one. He shuddered at the memory and hit speed dial 2.

Hank picked up on the third ring. "Hey, partner, what's up?" There was a lot of background noise, conversation and laughter and Nick remembered Hank had gone with the guys to the bar for a couple hours of darts and pool.

"Soooo you remember how mad you were that I didn't include you in my extracurricular Grimm activities?" He was talking too fast, adrenaline sending his heart rate to soaring. Taking a deep breath, he held it for a moment then let it out slowly.

"I remember you went after a dangerous suspect _without_ backup," Hank drawled, "and got your ass kicked."

"It was one wing to the face," Nick replied, feeling justifiably outraged at the description. "And a couple punches. And I won in the end."

"Uh huh," Hank said, skepticism audible even through the background noise. "Why are we having this discussion at…seven-thirty at night?" 

Nick glanced in the mirror. Yep, dim-headlight-guy was still there. "Because someone is following me and I thought I'd ask for permission, _Mom_, before I lead them to a dark, camera-less alley and ask them _why_ with extreme prejudice."

"Huh. Make and model?"

Nick squinted against the rain and the headlights in his mirrors. "Oldsmobile. Probably late 90's. Dark colored. Oregon plates. That's all I can tell."

"Where are you now?"

Nick gave him the cross streets.

"That's quite a ways away from your new place," Hank said thoughtfully. "In the wrong direction to. In fact that's mighty close to your old house."

Nick opened his mouth to provide some explanation that didn't involve him stalking his ex and said, "Um…."

"You know what?" Hank was laughing at him. He could hear it over the phone. "I don't even want to know."

"Hey, is that Nick. Hi, Nick! Come play darts!" A chorus of other voices echoed the sentiment. "We're losing!" And someone else added, "Badly!" And a third voice. "We need you!"

"If you're busy I can handle this by myself." He shouldn't have called. Lord knew Hank could use the down time.

"Shut up," Hank said amiably. "Give me two minutes to make sure Drew and Lenny have a ride and I'll meet you. Do you have a dark, camera-less alley picked out?"

He did.

"See you in seven."

Funny how time could stretch out so very, very long. Seven minutes was an interminable wait at the drive-through, in the dentist's chair, or when you were being followed—_stalked_—by someone that very likely wanted you dead. He kept thinking Reapers, but he thought they'd have a better car.

Nick very carefully stuck to the speed limit, signaled his turns, and made sure to stop at yellow lights. Dim-headlight stayed firmly in his rearview mirror, sometimes three or four car-lengths back, sometimes right behind him.

The alley was in a warehouse district. They'd investigated a case of arson in the building on one side, eventually arresting a couple disgruntled employees who thought they'd get revenge on the boss by burning down the business' storage facility. The building on the other side was for rent and neither had ever bothered with more security than a tall fence and a padlock. No cameras, no guards, no dogs, and no one around this time of night.

Traffic thinned out then evaporated entirely. The Olds had closed the gap, barely two car-lengths back. Catching a glimpse of flashing orange lights ahead, Nick slowed. Through the pounding rain and the windshield wipers, he made out orange and white city barricades across both lanes and beyond that a wide swath of blackness that was too dark to be wet pavement alone. A DETOUR sign pointed to the right.

The headlights in his mirror brightened suddenly, the only warning he had before the Olds smashed into the back of his Toyota, shoving it forward and into the barricades. He felt the shock of the jolt all the way up his spine, head snapping forward just in time to get slammed in the face with the airbag. He was vaguely aware he had both feet on the brake pedal and his mind scrambled to recall all those defensive driving classes. The whole vehicle shuddered and jolted another couple feet forward then went still.

Ears ringing, Nick pulled his head up, blinking hazily at the flashing orange light now lying on the hood of his car. The engine had died, hot metal tick, tick, ticking as it started to cool in the chill evening air, but the lights were still working, shining out on a flooded street and the brick wall of a dark, empty building on the other side of the intersection.

Fumbling the door open, he stepped out into the rain and landed in very, very cold water halfway up to his shins. Leaning against the Toyota, he took a look around while dragging his gun out of the holster. The Olds was empty, steaming gently from under a crumpled hood, driver's door wide open. Two passenger doors were open as well.

Movement to the left drew his attention to a shadowy figure on the other side of the Toyota.

The Olds' engine rattled and died leaving the night quiet but the rush of water and patter of rain and the noise the barricade lights made as they blinked on and off.

"POLICE!" Nick yelled. "Show me your hands!"

The figure—male, definitely male, tall and fairly broad shouldered—hesitated then moved back towards the Olds.

Nick shouted again, moving forward, a couple steps to get a better view. "Stop right there! Show me your hands!" He caught a glimpse of another shape to his right. Spinning that direction he swung the gun up a second too late.

A shock of pain flooded through his whole body, but as he hit the water he realized he hadn't been shot. Frankly he thought that might have hurt less. The last time he'd felt this had been years ago, right before he graduated at the academy.

"You _will_ remember this every time you un-holster your weapon," their DI had promised, walking up and down the line of tense cadets. Nick remembered being very focused on standing at attention and not staring at the Taser in the DI's hand like a petrified rabbit. "Every time you consider using this on someone, you will remember. And if a perp ever gets it away from you, you'll know what it's going to feel like."

Thank God they'd gone in alphabetical order. He only had to watch Anken, Paul twitch and writhe and swear up a storm before it was his turn. Russell Zabeta had been the kind of pale Nick had only ever seen in bad horror movies by the time they got to the end of the alphabet. The paramedic on standby had nearly pulled the poor guy from the exercise altogether.

He thought he remembered every moment pretty well, but the intervening years had obviously eased the memory of how bad it really was because _son of a bitch it hurt_! He tried sucking in a breath to scream and got a mouthful of water instead. It covered his head and seeped into his ears, muffling sound, and a piece of his brain not consumed with pain, pain, _pain_ was glad his eyes were already squeezed shut.

_Don't panic,_ he thought fiercely. _You are _not_ going to die in half a fucking foot of water._ It wasn't impossible to move—move with purpose rather than twitching and flailing—while being Tasered. He'd seen enough people manage it—usually blind drunk or high on drugs but still, not impossible. Difficult, agonizing, but not impossible.

He braced an arm, got a knee under himself, and reached for the side of the Toyota, dragging himself up with a grip on the tire. Above the water it was blurry bright. He blinked his eyes clear and followed the shiny, silver Taser wires up to a dark brown hand, protruding from a red rain slicker. The hood was up obscuring the face but he assumed female based on the stance and slenderness and the red-painted nails.

Sweeping out with an arm he tore the hooks out of his jacket and possibly skin, slumping gratefully against the tire on hands and knees when the jolting pain lessened instantly. For several long moments he couldn't do more than cough and retch and gasp for air. His gun was still in his hand, which was something of a surprise. He could barely feel it his fingers were so cold and numb, but when someone came out of the rain and jerked him to feet by his coat lapels, he swung it up and slapped the man across the face.

He shot the next man who made a grab at him, sparing a moment to be grateful for standard issue waterproof bullets, but the first guy was back on his feet again. Something hit his chest like the worst bee sting ever and then he knew he was on his knees again, seeing stars and halos of white light, and then all he saw was darkness.

TBC

_**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**_ Fanfic was being weird last week so I couldn't reply to some of you so if you didn't hear from me, thank you for the wonderful comments.


	7. Chapter 7

_**WARNINGS: Violence, ickiness, language, more violence, short chapter.**_

_Critical Bloom asked: …quick question: how far are you planning to take this fanfic? Because I know one too many fanfics that are sadly discontinued._

Absolutely going all the way. I have the entire story done, done, done. I just have to fiddle and adjust things before I post each chapter.

() () ()

Something cold and wet splashed on his face, dragging Nick back to consciousness with an instinctive twitch away. He shifted and tried to roll onto his side but something wrenched unforgivingly at his wrists and something else dug sharp edges into his ribs. Every breath was thick with gasoline fumes and the acrid stink of wet ashes. His first thought was that a gas tank must have ruptured in the wreck until he blinked open gritty eyes and saw trees.

No walls or buildings, nothing but trees and a dark, roiling sky overhead. Turning his head, he spotted a couple wooden tiki-style torches jammed into a pile of crumbled brick and debris, hissing and spitting as fat raindrops hit the flames. Not exactly his first choice for a light source given the heavy gasoline smell that seemed to be coming from all around him.

Looking down, he discovered he was lying on a haphazard pile of wooden pallets and, as it turned out, he was handcuffed to the top one. And it all smelled like gas. Crap, _HE_ smelled like gas. He'd thought he was still wet from being dunked in the floodwater or from the rain but it wasn't _just_ that.

Jesus. Don't panic, deep breaths. Okay, gas fumes, bad idea. Shallow breaths. Closing his eyes again, he took stock of the situation.

Oh yeah, he was soaked in accelerant and someone had thoughtfully left two _open flames _less than ten feet away!

Aside from that, his coat was gone. He still had the hoodie, though it was soaked through like the rest of his clothes. He was cold and wet, his chest hurt, his head hurt, his sinuses burned, his right elbow felt raw, and his right leg felt bruised from knee to hip, but none of it was bad enough to stop him from fighting or running. The handcuffs would though. There was a key in his coat pocket wherever that was. The spare was on the ring with his car keys, which were probably still in the Toyota's ignition.

Angry, hissing voices came from somewhere to the left. "You didn't say anything about him being a _cop_."

"What does it matter? He's a Grimm. He killed my Ben!"

Shit. Rolling his head the other way, he made out a dark-skinned man in blue coveralls and a puffy jacket and a woman in a red raincoat that was almost the same color as the plastic gas can in her hand. The way she was waving it around it must have been nearly empty.

Nick recognized her face from the DMV picture—Ben Salah's wife, Amora. Just behind them was a dark cargo van, headlights shining into the trees, side door open, but it seemed to be empty. No sign of the third man, the one he'd shot.

He examined the handcuffs between glances at the bickering pair. Getting free wasn't going to be as easy as ripping one of the slats loose, they'd threaded the chain around the thicker base board a couple feet along. He shot a glance at the argument, but they were deep into it, not paying him the slightest attention. The man looked pissed and ready to walk. Amora looked ready to punch him.

Slowly, slowly, Nick rolled sideways, putting his back to Amora and company, then slid backwards until he dropped off the pallet he was cuffed to onto the one below it. The whole pile wobbled, tipping two inches sideways. He froze for an anxious moment but they hadn't noticed.

He tugged at the wooden slat just up from where the handcuff chain was run through, testing the nails. It wasn't heavy duty, low-grade lumber, probably stolen from behind a grocery store rather than an industrial building. He thought he could work the slats loose…if he could just get the right leverage…maybe….

Leaning his weight onto the edge of the pallet to keep it still, he jerked a knee hard against the bottom of the same slat. _Son of a bitch_, that was gonna leave a bruise. But when he pushed on the slat with his fingers it was looser.

He shot a quick look over his shoulder then kneed it again, biting his lip to keep from making a noise. The slat popped free. Not much, but enough he could lift it with one hand and work the chain past the nails. One down two to go.

The argument escalated to all out shouting. The man threw up his hands and stalked towards the van, half dragging Amora as she clung to his arm.

The second slat was loose and barely needed a tap, but the last one was a stubborn bastard. He kneed it twice without doing more than deepening his bruises.

"—turn your back on family!" Amora screeched. She turned away from the man angrily and looked right at Nick. He _saw_ the exact moment she realized what he was doing. Her eyes widened then narrowed hatefully and she woged, wings sprouting from her back. Then she sprang forward.

She wasn't aiming for him. She was headed past him straight for the torches with their burning, flickering, open _flames_.

Oh, hell no. No, no, no.

Lurching to his feet, he pulled the pallet up with him by the cuffs. He didn't have to hit her with it so much as throw it in front of her. She was moving so fast, her own momentum smashed her into it, yanking him off his feet in an explosion of wood shards.

Rolling over he spent a long, long moment remembering how to breathe and blinking up at the stars through watering eyes. Oh man, that was going to hurt tomorrow.

Shaking off splinters, he staggered upright and moved to turn Amora over. She was fully human again, alive, scratched up from the shrapnel, and unconscious. Leaving her for the moment, he looked for the man, catching a glimpse of coat as he disappeared into the trees.

Stumbling a little he made his way over to the van, yanking open the driver's side door. Empty. No visible keys either, but lying on the console was the most beautiful cell phone in the whole world.

Hank answered on the first ring. "Griffin."

"It's me."

"Jesus, Nick. Where are _you_?"

Nick found his voice shaking embarrassingly from sheer relief. "MacGruder Park. The warehouse that burned down."

Hank's voice went distant as he spoke to someone else, "We were right it's MacGruder Park. We're two minutes away, Nick. You alright?"

No. No, no, no, no, no. Really, really no. "Yeah, I'm good. Just need a shower and a change of clothes."

Something crashed in the brush behind the van, out in the black where the headlights didn't even make a dent.

"And maybe an ambulance for the perp," he added distractedly.

Thumping, crunching footsteps headed his way. Far too heavy for the guy who had run off. He gave the van a second look, hoping for some sort of weapon, like his gun lying on the seat or maybe a grenade launcher. There was a tire iron on the floor in the back, half buried under a bundle of PVC piping. He yanked it free just as an enormous man emerged from the trees, carrying a body under one arm the way most people would pack a puppy. Incongruously there were grocery bags dangling from the other hand.

"You lose something, Grimm?"

It took Nick a second to recognize Camden Wells in full siegbarste mode. The last time he'd been more concerned with being turned into Grimm-burger by the _second_ ogre he'd ever met than taking in woge details.

He sagged against the front of the van. "Damn, Wells, you scared the hell out of me."

Wells dumped the body on the ground and Nick wasn't surprised at all to see it was the man Amora had been arguing with. He was conscious but groggy. There was a cut on the side of his face, likely where Nick's handgun had made contact at the crash site.

"Stay," Wells rumbled at the man, who really didn't look like he had any plans on doing anything else. He shook off the woge with a twitch and shudder. "You getting into trouble again, Grimm?"

Nick laughed sharply. "You know me." He gestured wearily to the man on the ground. "Where did you find him?"

"Not too far away." Wells came over to lean on the van next to Nick. "He was running like a squirrel with a dog on his trail. Said the Grimm was after him."

Nick said, "Uh, yeah, I was getting right on that." As soon the world stopped spinning. Captain was not going to be impressed he was getting high on gas fumes.

Wells looked over at him. "You smell like gasoline."

"Yeah," Nick said shakily, wiping at his forehead with a sleeve. It didn't help much. "Would you see if there's a black leather jacket in there somewhere?" He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the van he was leaning against, a little afraid that if he moved he would fall over.

Wells gave him a concerned look he steadfastly pretended not to see and obligingly searched the van, returning with his coat.

"There's a handcuff key in the inner right hand pocket."

It was a huge relief to get the cuffs off. He hadn't realized how tight they were until the rush of blood into his hands when they came off sent pins and needles all up his arms. There were, not unexpectedly, bruises on his wrists.

Wells tried to put him into the jacket. "Dude, you should wear it. You're shivering."

Nick shook his head. "Not until I can change." Juliette had given him that jacket for his birthday two years ago. If the dunking hadn't already ruined it he wasn't going to do it now.

"Cops are coming," Wells said, looking out over the park.

Hank hadn't been kidding about being minutes away and he wasn't alone. A line of flashing lights was making its way up the winding service road, in a show of déjà vu complete with firelight and dazed bodies scattered around him. He should have expected Hank to call it in when he didn't show up for their rendezvous. He'd probably tracked Nick's cell and found the smashed up Toyota.

"That's a lot of cars," Wells commented blandly.

That was a _lot_ of cars.

Amora was twitching and starting to wake up. Nick asked Wells to drag her away from the gasoline soaked pallets and cuff her to the other guy just in case she got any ideas, like running into the trees or waving Goddamn _flaming_ torches around.

His skin was oily with gas, hair slick with it. The hoodie was soaked with it. He stripped it off, tossing it away. The button-down underneath got tossed as well, but the t-shirt was nearly dry.

Wells jerked his head towards the makeshift pyre asking, "What exactly were they planning to do with that?"

Nick shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to _think_ about it. "What w-were you doing out here anyway?" he asked instead.

"I was coming back from the grocery," Wells said, lifting the bag in demonstration with a rustle of plastic, "and saw the lights. Thought it was someone messing around the crime scene. Then that fellow came flying out of the dark, babbling about Grimms. Figured you were lurking about somewhere."

Nick ran a shaky hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. "I appreciate the help."

"She said you murdered Ben," the man sitting on the ground said suddenly.

"Did she also tell you," Nick replied flatly, "they kidnapped four people?"

"What?" the man demanded. He was looking at Amora who refused to look back at him.

"Teresa Asper," Nick said conversationally, "is still in a coma. Collin Smith is going to end up in the nut house unless I can figure out a way to convince him he isn't really seeing monsters." He tipped his head back, letting the rain hit his face. The fumes were making him nauseous, making his eyes burn, and the ground heave. "And the two kids are pretty much fucked up for life what with being used as incubators."

The man looked aghast at Amora. "You tried _ujauzito_? You _know_ it is forbidden."

"Forbidden by whom, Jamal?" Amora demanded angrily. She threw her hands around, yanking on the handcuffs. "People so long dead no one even remembers their names?"

"Forbidden for a _reason_," Jamal insisted. "There are other ways."

"Uh," Wells said aside to Nick, "what are they talking about?"

"Having babies the old fashioned, creepy, and murderous way."

Marie's books had hinted that the _kifo inzi_ didn't do the whole egg laying thing much anymore. There'd been some sort of uprising that ended in the bloody slaughter of most of the species and an agreement with a bunch of big shots in the wesen world to keep a low profile.

Wells looked like he wasn't sure if Nick was being serious or not. "Explain later. If you're okay here, I'm going to take off before the cavalry arrives."

"Will you be at the cave tomorrow?" Nick asked as Wells pushed off the van, making it rock on its springs.

"Nah. Swing by the house in the afternoon. Got to finish up Christmas shopping in the morning." The look on his face was that of a man who has seen war and might actually prefer that to the mall in the waning pre-Christmas days. "You have the address in your files, yeah?"

It was. "I'll be by."

Wells yelled, "Bring coffee," as he disappeared into the trees.

Nick looked at the two sitting on the ground. "I ordered your husband to surrender," he said, pointlessly he was sure. Amora was grieving and angry and wasn't going to care, but that was alright, he wasn't saying it for her. "I tried to arrest him. He attacked me and I fought back." _Fought_ instead of outright shooting the man who was, in a sense, defending his children. Creepy, egg-children that ate the body of the host when they hatched, but still…. "The kerosene lamp was knocked over in the struggle."

Tripping over the lamp had sent Salah sprawling onto a pile of debris and cement chunks rife with the jagged ends of broken rebar. There had been a lot of blood on the ground very quickly and nothing Nick could do to stop it. The fire had burned fast up the old wooden walls. By the time he'd gotten everyone else out, there hadn't been time to go back for the body.

Amora glared fiercely. "Murderer," she spat out.

Nick sighed and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the headlights of the approaching cars. He pulled his badge off his belt and used it to wave the occupants of the first patrol car towards the prisoners. Lieutenant Mowler emerged from the second car and came directly over.

"Burkhardt," he greeted. Mowler was big, as tall as Renard but heavier all over, dark skinned, and moved like a panther. He'd been on the SWAT team for seven years before moving over to Central and in the Army Rangers before that.

Nick gave a weary wave. "Hey, LT."

"You need an ambulance?"

"Nah." He tried to stand up straight—the man really was gigantic—and nearly fell down as his knees wobbled. "Maybe."

Mowler grabbed his arms, maneuvering him over to sit in the open doorway of the van. "Maybe definitely." He turned his head to talk into his radio for a moment and turned back, fanning a hand in front of his face. "Hell, Burkhardt, you take a bath in gasoline or something?"

Nick let out a shaky breath and summoned up a smile that felt a little goofy. "Involuntarily."

"Give me a quick rundown. We'll get the details down on paper later."

Nick took a moment, shoving his thoughts into order by sheer force. "The female is Amora Salah. She's a person of interest in the four kidnappings her husband did. Male is Jamal, unknown last name. There's a third suspect with a gunshot wound. We need to get word out to hospitals and clinics." He tried to remember details but the minutes after the accident were mostly a blur. "Black male. Six feet maybe. Dark jacket. That's all I saw."

"I'll call it in. Were you the shooter?"

Nick nodded shakily. "One shot fired. I lost my gun at the accident site where they jumped me."

"We'll look for it," Mowler promised.

"Nick!" Hank appeared in front of him all but elbowing the Lieutenant out of the way. "You alright, partner?"

Mowler backed off, walking over to take charge of the arriving units, already talking into his radio.

"What the hell happened?" Hank demanded as soon as Mowler was out of range, voice sharp and low. He pulled back, making a face. "Is that gas—?"

"Hank," he interrupted urgently, "I need you to get my stuff out of the Toyota before they tow it. The bag in the back has my Aunt's weapons in it." They would take the vehicle into the station for processing. Forensics could _not_ get hold of that bag.

Hank grabbed him by the shoulders. "Hey, hey, calm down. It's in my trunk. I took it when we found the wreck."

Relief washed through him leaving behind a hollow, wobbly feeling that left him sliding sideways against the door. Hank caught him, propping him back up. "Whoa, no you don't. _We need paramedics over here!_"

"Wow, that was _right_ in my ear," Nick muttered.

"They're on their way," someone who was not Hank said.

Nick frowned. He recognized that voice. And as soon as the gray eased up from his vision he knew who he was going to see. "Didn't you tell me," he said to Hank, sotto voce, "that Drew was never allowed to be near you and liquor at the same time after that Christmas party where he puked on you?"

Hank had brought Wu on a wesen related call! What the hell. He hoped he was properly conveying his unhappiness with this idea through the glare on his face.

Hank shrugged, unfazed. "Half the precinct was at the bar tonight. You're lucky Wu was the _only_ one who wouldn't be put off," he said quietly and then louder, "We've worked out an agreement. He doesn't drink more than one beer and I don't send him expensive dry cleaning bills."

Wu came up behind Hank. "It's a mutually beneficial arrangement," he said and Nick almost choked on a laugh. "Hi, Nick. Why do you smell like a Texaco?"

TBC

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** No cliffhanger. See Squirrel can be good.


	8. Chapter 8

**WARNINGS: Half naked Nick, aftermath of violence, deep meaningful talks, language.**

The next hour was a long, confused blur of vitals checks and administrative details. Amora and Jamal were given a once over by the medics then hauled away for processing. Jamal was quiet and well-behaved. Amora's laser gaze of hatred burned until they were out of sight.

He watched it all happen from behind the ambulance where he'd been sent with a container of soapy water and a bit of cloth to scrub off the gasoline.

Hank stood with him, holding up a privacy blanket while he stripped down to his underwear and washed as best he could. "I told them you called to say you'd changed your mind about coming to the bar. That we were on the phone and you thought you were being tailed but weren't sure so I said I'd meet you instead of calling in for uniform backup and causing a ruckus."

"Okay." He finished scrubbing and reached for a fresh bottle of water to rinse off. _Shit. Cold_!

Wu appeared with the stack the clothes Nick kept in Hank's trunk for emergencies like mud and blood and, lately, monster goo. "Voila, clean duds."

"Thanks."

"They found a tranquilizer gun under the passenger seat of the van," Wu supplied. "The kind they use on large animals." He rocked back on his heels a couple times. "There's a dart missing from the case. They must have thought they were hunting big game not," he patted Nick on the head, then grimaced and wiped his hand on his thigh, "small fry."

"Ha, ha." Nick rubbed his chest gingerly, remembering the feeling of being stung by a pissed off hornet. Amora had come prepared. He wondered how she'd found out he was a Grimm and how long she'd been following him before he noticed. They hadn't been the most subtle of stalkers. "Do we know where they got the gun from?"

"Not yet, but cousin Jamal works for the zoo so it's an easy guess their inventory is going to be one short."

Drying off as best he could with another blanket, Nick yanked on the sweatpants, socks, and shoes. There was a seatbelt bruise across his chest and the tight ache of airbag rash along the right side of his face that he tried to avoid as he eased a t-shirt over his head. He got a nose full of fabric softener, so familiar it started an altogether different kind of ache in his chest. It had been just under two months since he'd washed and replaced the clothes he kept in Hank's emergency bag following an unfortunate slip and fall at a local riding school where one of the instructors had turned up dead. They still smelled like home.

He didn't realize he was trembling until Hank wrapped him up in the blanket and pulled him into a hug. He gave himself a full minute of feeling warm and safe and protected before pushing back. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Screw that!" Wu said. Loudly. "That crazy bitch was going to burn you alive. You're allowed a freak out. Or two. Hell, I think I'm going to have one _for_ you. How many freak-outs are appropriate in this sort of situation, Hank?"

"Oh two at the very least." He steered Nick towards the back of the ambulance and the waiting paramedics.

Nick laughed weakly. "I'm going to save the other one for later." Maybe tomorrow after he'd had a shower and a nap and felt more like dealing with this big pile of therapy-inducing crap.

"You'll probably need it for after the Captain talks to you," Wu warned nodding towards the man himself cutting through the mass of uniforms and flashing lights. Quite a few people suddenly found they had other things to do and the number of cars in the vicinity had dropped considerably by the time Renard made it to the ambulance.

Nick was happy enough to hide behind the oxygen mask the medics insisted on while Hank and Wu dealt with the Captain. He was still in his dark blue suit and striped tie, still buttoned down and tucked in and tidy even after a long day at work.

"Detective," one of the medics caught his attention, "did you swallow any gasoline?"

He didn't think he had. The burn in his sinuses suggested some floodwater had gone down the wrong way though. His throat and chest were raw from coughing and he was incredibly grateful the oxygen was clearing his head and easing the nausea. They checked his blood pressure, heart rate, and pupil response and cleaned the scrapes on his hands. He lied through his teeth about having someone to stay with him overnight, and promised he'd see a doctor tomorrow, which actually was the truth.

They gave him painkillers, which he pocketed, and a lovely stick on heat pack for his back, which he appreciated as much for the warmth in general as much as the easing of stiffening muscles.

A Uniform came by with a plastic evidence bag and had him identify his gun and the clip that was short one bullet. It was a relief to know it wasn't sliding down the gutter with the floodwater for some kid to find it.

Someone else collected his clothes, thoughtfully separating the personal items into their own bag. The wallet was soaked but salvageable. The hard candies and half pack of gum were going in the trash. His phone had been recovered from the passenger side floorboard of the Toyota with a new scratch across the back of the case but otherwise unharmed.

Mowler swung back by to show him a photo on his I-phone. "This the guy you shot?"

He squinted at the picture of an unconscious man in a hospital gown. "Right build. I didn't get much of a look."

"He turned up at the hospital half an hour ago. They're taking him into surgery right now." Mowler tucked his phone away. "Ballistics will make a match if the bullet comes out intact."

The forensics photographer came by for shots of the single mark where the Taser had gotten through a gap in his jacket, the tranq bruise, the airbag burn on his face, a scattering of bruises on his back and knees, and the red marks around his wrists where the handcuffs had chafed. Mowler returned to take a formal statement as he was wrapping back up in the blanket. He kept it short, both from the necessity of avoiding all wesen references and because he'd been unconscious for a lot of it.

Renard came over as they were wrapping up. Spotting him on approach, Mowler tapped his notepad with his pen and said, "I'll get this typed up. You can come down and sign it tomorrow. IA will no doubt be calling to wrap up the Ben Salah issue now." He clapped Nick on the arm. "Get some rest, Burkhardt."

"Thanks, LT."

Renard looked at him for a second, hands shoved in his pockets. "You alright, Nick?"

"I'm good, sir."

Renard glanced towards the rubble of the warehouse. Someone had taken the torches far, far away and doused them. "Déjà vu."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't make a habit of it."

"Doing my best, sir," Nick said, but he was talking to a broad back and wondering if he had imagined that proud little up-tic of one corner of Renard's mouth.

The Captain paused a moment to talk to Mowler then strode through the thinning mob to his big, black SUV.

"Okay then," Nick muttered to himself. It wasn't exactly the way he'd pictured _that_ conversation going.

Readjusting the blanket into more of a cape than a mummy-wrapping, he slid off the ambulance step, gripping the bag of personal items and his coat. The first couple steps were taken with caution, but the direct application of oxygen to the brain had firmed up his knees wonderfully and he made it over to Hank and Wu without incident.

"Hey, man," Wu said, "they release you back into the wild?"

"I am freed," he declared.

Hank wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him through the crowd. "Then let's blow this popsicle stand. You, partner, owe me dinner and a beer."

"I do?"

"Yep. I was right in the middle of ordering when you called." Hank pondered for all of three steps. "I'm thinking takeout and a decent microbrew if you have such a thing."

Nick shook his head. "Beer snob," he said fondly. He was surrounded by them God help him.

"The word," Hank said loftily, "is discriminating." The wounded look he put on when Wu and Nick burst into laughter was badly faked.

() () ()

He fell asleep in the car, waking when the overhead light came on as the door opened to let Wu out in front of his apartment building, then passed out again to the rhythm of the windshield wipers and the soft-voiced announcer on the radio.

Hank's hand on his arm woke him a second time. "Hey. We're here," he said in the quiet sort of voice one used with half-asleep people.

Nick sat up, rubbing one eye, and realized they were parked in the driveway of his new place. There was a paper soup cup in his hand with, when he looked into it, an inch of broth in the bottom. Huh. He drank the remainder and put the lid back on the empty container. Hank held out a paper bag for the trash. He tolerated food in the car but he was fanatic about the cleanup afterwards.

The rain had died down to a whisper of cool mist across his face, waking him up a little on the trip up the sidewalk. His head was wrapped in cottony, post-nap wool, but he was alert enough to make it up the two stairs unassisted.

Hank had to use his spare key to let them in. Nick's was still in the Toyota. Right next to the handcuff key.

The house was cold. Nick crossed over to the thermostat, sliding it to high.

"You should go take a hot shower," Hank told him. "I'm going to drink your beer and watch the news while I eat dinner." He set the take-out bag on the table next to the couch.

One of the things the landlord had upgraded in the post-police-raid-remodel was the water heater and it was _beautiful_. The water stayed hot through three shampoos and two full body scrubs. He climbed out flushed and warmer and finally able to smell something other than gasoline. Pulling on his warmest fleece sweats he sat down on the bed to put on socks….and woke up to the sound of voices downstairs.

The clock said 1:15am. Struggling free of the blanket he'd been cocooned in at some point after he fell asleep, he spent a panicky moment staring at the nightstand wondering where his gun was before the memory came back. He rubbed both hands over his face, through his hair, and gripped the back of his neck. The headache was back but dulled and easily ignorable and he made a mental note to ask Rosalee for more of Monroe's red powder when he stopped by the shop tomorrow. That stuff was awesome.

He rolled his head, wincing at the resulting snaps and pops, then bent down to retrieve a backup gun from the box under the bed. It took longer than it should have, the bruises and strained muscles making themselves known but it wasn't nearly as bad as he was expecting.

He went downstairs, carefully avoiding the creaky fourth stair and the tripwire on the second from the bottom. Hank was stretched out on the couch, sound asleep in front of ESPN Classics. Nick stood blinking at the basketball players wearing the short shorts and knee socks from the late 70's. Juliette used to grumble about the uniforms these days, saying that if she had to watch basketball by proxy she should at least get eye candy out of the deal.

Finding the remote he shut it off, plunging the room into darkness except for a soft-edged rectangle of illumination coming through the kitchen door from the light over the stove. It was enough to find the blanket on the back of the chair and spread it over Hank.

"I appreciate the thought," Hank said, "but it's, like, ninety degrees in here." Rolling onto his back, he pulled the blanket off, wadding it into a pillow and tucking it under his head. "What are you doing up?"

Nick sank onto the cushioned ottoman that had come as part of the set, laying the gun on his thigh. "I heard voices." His throat hurt, voice rough.

"Sorry, didn't realize I had it up so loud."

"You didn't." He gestured towards the stairs. "The sound echoes." He wrapped his arms around himself. Hank's complaints about the heat notwithstanding, he was still freezing. Being dunked in icy floodwater, followed by hours in wet clothes in the chill December rain had left him cold down to his bones. "You staying the night?"

"Yeah," Hank said. "Someone needs to keep an eye on you."

"Ha. The couch pulls out."

Hank stretched and toed off his shoes. "I'm good."

A car door slammed outside, drawing their attention to the front of the house. Nick went to the window, pulling back the curtain to see a woman walking up the sidewalk. An ancient Ford Pinto was idling at the curb, belching clouds of white exhaust.

"Who is it?" Hank asked, suddenly right next to him, holstered gun in hand.

"No idea." The way this week was going it was probably a frickin' Reaper that did house calls.

Hank made a thoughtful noise. "I'm just going to stand over here," he said and put his back to the wall on the far side of the door just as the woman knocked.

Nick flipped on the porch light and opened the door, holding the gun behind his back, and immediately revising the age from adult woman to teen. Fifteen or sixteen if that. She looked nervous and twitchy and was dressed like she should be shopping at the mall not knocking on strange doors at one in the morning.

"You're Bruiser?" She looked him up and down and her expression turned doubtful. "Seriously?"

If he hadn't spent the night being Tasered, drugged, kidnapped, and nearly burned alive he might have been a little calmer about this _child_ showing up to buy drugs at one in the morning and then _insulting_ him. As it was…. "Really? What are you _fifteen_?"

"_Sixteen_!" she sniped back indignantly.

It was possible. Under all that eyeliner and mascara. Possible. At some point after he turned thirty he'd begun to think of everyone under twenty looked like they should still be in junior high. Hank had laughed at him when he had brought it up, unhelpfully saying, "Welcome to the club, partner."

"And your boyfriend in the car there is what eighteen? Twenty?"

She opened her mouth to answer then shut it with a snap, lips pressed into an angry line. "Seventeen," she admitted grudgingly.

"Uh huh. So he decided to send his girlfriend in to buy the drugs in case something went wrong?"

He could _hear_ Hank sniggering behind the door.

"We're not dealers," she snapped scathingly, insulted to the core. "It was just supposed to be a couple E tablets." She tried desperately to salvage the situation. "Look, I obviously got the wrong house—"

Nick talked right over top of her. "Because seventeen is old enough to be charged as an adult, especially if he has priors, and I'll bet lover boy out there knows that." He held out a hand. "Give me your phone."

"No way!"

He couldn't even find it in himself to be surprised when she woged into something like a furry-cheeked chipmunk. It had been that kind of week. He was even less surprised when she squeaked, "Grimm," and turned to flee.

Nick sighed. "Oh for God's sake," he growled, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. So much for the anonymity of a new address. "Stand still and give me your phone. I'm _not_ going to hurt you." To the _still_ sniggering Hank he said, "Would you stop giggling like a hyena back there and go grab the getaway driver before he, you know, _gets away_?"

Hank clipped his holster on his belt, put his shoes back on, and headed out the backdoor with a grin big enough to fit most of Texas in.

"This," he told the girl as she passed over her sparkly pink IPhone with an expression that suggested he was _stealing her very soul_, "is not how I was planning on spending the evening." Scrolling through the contacts he found Home and made the call. Turned out mom lived less than five minutes away. She knew the boyfriend's parents as well and yes she would be _happy_ to give them a call.

"Your mom is on the way," he told her, returning the phone which had Crystal emblazoned across the back in glittery, purple nail polish.

"That is _so_ uncool," Crystal said, aghast, as if the cop calling her mom was actually _worse_ than the Grimm chopping off heads.

"Yeah, well, you caught me on a bad night." He watched Hank walk up behind the car and tap on the window.

"Is your boyfriend wesen too?"

Crystal shook her head, gazing up at him with big, liquid eyes.

"Aright then. Tell you what? You keep the Grimm thing a secret and so will I."

"Secret?"

"You know hush-hush, on the DL, clandestine, covert, surreptitious...I'm running out of similes here." Still with the big eyes, _staring_ at him. "Look, you're going to be in enough trouble for trying to buy E. Trying to buy E from a _cop_. Think how upset your parents would be if they knew you had gone to a Grimm's house."

He didn't think it was possible for her eyes to get any bigger but it was and they did. It was like watching a real life Disney movie. "So _you_ don't get in worse trouble," he prompted, "and _I_ don't have pictures of my house show up on Facebook?"

"I'm good with secrets," Crystal promised eagerly. "I am _great_ with secrets. You will be _amazed_ at how _great_ I am about keeping secrets. Like, my friend Krystal—with a K not a C—told me she lost her MP3 but she told her parents it was stolen while she was at the mall because this is the second one she's lost and her mom told her next time she'd have to get a job and buy her own."

Thank God Hank chose that moment to frog-march the pimply-faced, baggy-jeaned boyfriend up the stairs and Crystal shut up abruptly. Hank was still grinning. Bastard.

Nick set a pot of coffee brewing then left Hank watching the two teens sitting stiffly on the couch while he went upstairs to put on those socks he'd never managed, stash the gun, and turn his electric blanket to supernova. He was headed downstairs again when he remembered the sample cup and vial of blood in his jacket pocket and made a hasty check, breathing a sigh of relief when he found they were intact after the rough night.

Trudging back down the stairs, he stashed both in the fridge just as the doorbell rang, admitting two sets of very pissed off parents. He invited them in, offered coffee, water, milk, orange juice. Hank and his new health kick got decaf herbal tea. He made a second cup for himself, fully planning on snuggling back into his warm comfy bed as soon as the door closed behind the lot of them. Leaning against the kitchen doorway, he eavesdropped shamelessly as the two kids alternately babbled about this being the first time they'd _ever_ done anything like this and sat silently while they were threatened with no phone, computer, or car, and every conceivable nasty chore in existence for the rest of their lives.

Hank helpfully suggested a visit to the city jail to show them what their lives were going to look like if they continued down this path. Nick pulled Crystal aside to quietly suggest she should find a new boyfriend, one who didn't send her into a known drug house and then sit on his ass while a strange guy manhandled her.

If someone had grabbed Juliette like that, he sure as hell wouldn't have watched from a distance. Actually, he probably wouldn't have had much to do besides pick the guy up off the ground after Juliette got done with him. She had a mean right hook.

Finally—_finally_—among profuse apologies both families headed home, taking the Pinto with them. He secured the door and flipped the porch light off and turned to find Hank looking at him, still grinning. "No wonder you're so tired all the time. Does that happen a lot?"

"Now you know why the rent is cheap," Nick said. He couldn't help chuckling at the absurdity of it all. "The previous tenant had a thriving home business."

"I'll say. You should have Narcotics set up in the driveway."

Nick turned off the overhead light, leaving the lamp by the couch on. "The house was vacant for over three months while they cleaned up and renovated. I think these are just the stragglers who really weren't paying attention."

Hank laughed. "Only you, man. Only you."

"I," Nick announced, "am going to bed." Mmmmm…warm, soft, comfy bed. "And not getting up until at least…nine o'clock." He'd better set his alarm or it might be noon and he'd miss his appointment at the hospital.

"I hear you there." Shucking his jacket and shoes again, Hank stretched out on the couch, closing his eyes and clasping his hands over his stomach. "See you in the morning."

Nick shook his head fondly. He checked that the coffee pot was off, switched off the kitchen light, and headed up the stairs. "Goodnight."

"Night," Hank said. "Hey, Nick."

He paused.

"I appreciate you calling me tonight."

Nick took a step backwards. All he could see was the outline of the back of the couch and Hank's socked toes poking up where his feet were propped on the arm. "I think I should be the appreciative one."

"True and you totally owe me pancakes in the morning. But I'm talking about you including me in your Grimm life."

Oh. Ohhhhhh. "I never meant to shut you out." He sat down on the step. "I just…." Didn't know how to say it. Didn't think Hank would believe him. "Don't want you to get hurt."

Hank snorted. "You remember what I told you the first day we rode together."

Nick smiled ruefully into the dark. He'd been Hank's first rookie as a detective and the older man had been full of advice. Most of it good advice even if some of it was more along the lines of which beer joint had the best fries, which they still disagreed on. "You said that the fastest way to get someone killed on the job is to not share information."

"Good to know you were paying attention." There was a meaningful pause. "It's still true."

"I know." That didn't seem like enough so he added, "I'll try."

Hank sat up, resting his chin on an arm on the back of the couch. "Great. You can start by telling me what's going on with you health-wise."

Nick laughed softly. "Hell if I know." He made a helpless gesture. "I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow—today."

"Who with?"

"The doctor who treated me after Adalind got me with the spider venom. I ran into him at the hospital yesterday."

"Good. Do you want me to go with you?"

Nick shook his head. "I don't think they're doing anything that will impair my ability to drive. It's just a checkup and blood tests."

"I meant for moral support, dumbass."

Nick said dryly, "Oh yeah, I can feel the support from here."

Hank grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dark. "Tough love, buddy, tough love."

"I'll try my best to soldier through on my own."

"Alright then," Hank said mildly. "Call me when you get out. We can have a discussion about you stalking your ex."

"I am _not_ stalking Juliette."

It was too dark for Nick to make out Hank's exact expression but he could guess pretty easily. "Were you or were you not at your old house when you called me?"

It hurt more than it should have to hear it called his _old_ house. "Maybe," he hedged. "I went to Monroe's to tell him about Adalind. I was tired when I left and I was driving on autopilot. I didn't pay attention to the turns." He'd fucked up. Let his guard down and led a dangerous, vengeful criminal straight to her door.

If Amora had been paying attention or managed to do so some research this could have ended in far worse ways.

"Hey, man, I'm not judging. That would be hypocritical of me for one thing."

"And on that note," Nick declared a little desperately, "I'm going to bed now." He stood and started up the stairs before Hank could say anything else.

"Pancakes!" Hank yelled after him.

"Pancakes," he promised.

"Night!"

"Goodnight, Hank!"

The bed was, as anticipated, soft and deliciously warm. He burrowed under the covers, asleep in moments.

TBC

_Author's Notes: _See no cliffhanger. Two in a row. The Squirrel is good.


	9. Chapter 9

**WARNINGS: More holiday themes in August. Depressing, isn't it? Nick in a hospital gown (that's for you littlebounce).**

_**Notes:**_ Super long chapter for you. To make up for the lack of cliffhangers. Because I know you miss them terribly.

In the morning there were pancakes. They were good to.

As a bonus, he was less stiff and sore than anticipated. A hot shower and a couple Advil took the edge off enough he would walk without looking like an arthritic octogenarian.

He caught a ride to the precinct with Hank after a brief stop off at the other man's house for a change of clothes before he went in for his shift. Volunteering to work on Christmas had gotten Nick the day off. Unfortunately he had a full To Do list that was not going to allow a lot of time for the much anticipated lounging on the couch watching football.

Upstairs, he read through and signed the official version of what had happened last night. It was always weird reading about it second hand, laid out in black and white. The DA was going to love this.

"Jamal was already asking for a deal," Mowler told him. The big man was just off shift, dressed in civvies, and ready to head home. "Claims he had no idea what his cousin had set up."

"I don't think he knew how far she was willing to go," Nick allowed, "but he knew she wasn't planning on taking me out for tea and cake. What about the guy I shot?"

"Another cousin. Surgery went well. Should fully recover. I've got a couple guys watching him until we can have him transferred."

After that he went down to the garage to check out a car from the motor pool and got a look at his poor, bashed up Toyota. It wasn't as bad as he expected, but it was still bad. He patted the hood and silently promised they'd be driving again in no time.

"New bumper," Yamaz said, walking over with a clipboard in hand, "new tailgate, new rear window, frame damage is minor though. Also, Perkins says you're over three hundred miles past due for an oil change. I'd avoid her for a few days if I were you." He held out the clipboard. "Fill these out."

An hour later, Nick signed his name for the last time, shook the cramp out of his hand, gathered up the box of personal belongings that had been collected from his Toyota, and accepted the keys to a late-model beige sedan. Two blocks later, he remembered all over again why he preferred a tall vehicle, seeing around traffic was just so much harder that close to the ground.

The Spice Shop was always warm and warmly lit and today it smelled like peppermint. The bell dinged quietly as Nick closed the door, breathing in appreciatively as he shook rain off his hair and jacket. Rosalee was ringing up a sale so he spent a few moments browsing the shelves while she passed on final instructions.

Once she saw the customers out she smiled at him in greeting, "Hello, Nick. What brings you by today?"

"I need a reason to seek out your sparkling company?"

She arched an eyebrow at him.

He grinned. "Possibly I do have a couple reasons."

"Lay 'em on me."

"Hank and I were sent to the hospital yesterday to talk to a woman with amnesia. It was Adalind Schade…and you don't at all look surprised by that." He'd bet good money that a certain flannel-wearing _gossip_ had been on the phone as soon as he walked out the door last night.

Rosalee smiled. "Monroe called this morning."

"I'm _amazed_ he waited so long."

"He had to leave a message last night," she said. "I went to bed early. But he gave me the whole story this morning. Do you think it's true?"

"The amnesia?" Nick leaned on the counter. "She _seemed_ genuinely confused."

"What did the doctors say?"

"They can't find any physical reason for it." He shrugged a little. "But the blood tests haven't come back yet."

"I think," Rosalee said, producing the service bell from under the counter, "we should discuss this over refreshments." She set the bell in place along with the hand lettered card that said RING FOR SERVICE. "I stopped by the bakery this morning on the way in. Would you care to join me?"

He beat her to the kitchen and started filling the kettle. Rosalee got into the cupboard for the heavy clay mugs she didn't use for regular customers. They looked homemade; one had a heart etched into the side, deep and slightly lopsided. "How is Hank doing with this?"

"He took himself off the case as soon as we found out it was Adalind. He was pretty shaken up."

"God, seeing her again has to have been a shock." Pulling out spoons, she slammed the drawer shut a little too hard. "That woman—" She stopped and busied herself looking for the honey. "I don't know how you could stand to be in the same room with her?"

"It wasn't easy." Leaning against the counter, Nick blatantly ignored the old adage that a watched teapot never boiled. "We have to assume this was caused by a zaubertrank like with Juliette. The coincidences are just too…." He waved a hand searching for a word.

"Coincidental?" Rosalee suggested.

Exactly. "Is there a way to find out for sure?"

"Yes," she said hesitantly. She took two saucers out of the cupboard, placing them on the table. "I'll need something to test though."

From his pocket, Nick produced the small, stoppered, plastic vial marked with a St. Vincent's Hospital label.

"That's…?" She took it from him, turning it sideways to read the printed information.

"Adalind's blood. I swiped it from the hospital. So far," he added pulling a face, "it is the creepiest thing to have spent the night in my fridge."

Rosalee looked impressed. "Look at you being all sneaky and Grimm-like."

"I've been practicing," Nick said, aiming for faux-modest.

She gave him an amused look.

"And this is from Adalind's apartment." He pulled the plastic sample cup from another pocket. "It is possibly the last thing she had to drink before she turned up at the hospital."

Rosalee nodded approvingly. "Very thorough." She tucked both into a pocket of her sweater. "I should be able to get something from one or the other. Hand me that tin there, please."

The tea was dark and rich and smelled like cinnamon and cloves and vanilla and orange peel. The first sip curled sweet and warm in his belly. "Oh, that's good."

Rosalee lifted the mug to her nose, inhaling deeply. A shadow of fur rippled over her face and down her neck. "Mmmm…this was my mother's favorite blend. She taught me how to make it when I was little."

"It smells like Christmas," Nick said.

"I never thought of it that way but yes…yes it does." Rosalee chuckled as she opened up the white bakery box and offered him first choice. "Is Adalind still in the hospital?"

"For now." He thoroughly examined the pastry options and finally picked a pumpkin muffin with cream cheese frosting. "She's supposed to be released this afternoon."

Rosalee chose a raspberry scone, placing it on a saucer, and tearing off a piece. "I don't suppose there's any way to delay it."

"Short of them finding something odd in her blood tests…." He shook his head.

"Too bad. It would be nice to know exactly where she is for the next few days."

"We've been doing some digging," Nick said, picking at his muffin. "Turns out she quit her job just after the…thing with Hank. She's been converting her holdings to cash and transferring the cash to offshore accounts. And she recently had her passport renewed."

Rosalee paused with a bite of scone halfway to her mouth. "How recently?"

"Couple weeks ago."

"She was planning on leaving the country."

"Looks that way. Unfortunately for Adalind, her passport has mysteriously disappeared from her apartment. "

Rosalee's eyebrows rose. "Where is it now?"

"Somewhere in the Columbia." He'd dropped it off a spit of land, watched it sink into the flat, gray water with a great amount of satisfaction. Adalind might skip town but she wasn't getting out of the country on _that_ passport. "How long will it take to do the tests?"

"To find out if a zaubertrank was used? I can do that right away." She ate the last bite of scone and dusted off her hands. "To pin down exactly what recipe was used and what the ingredients were will take more time."

"Do we need to know what the ingredients are?"

Rosalee nodded emphatically. "Definitely." She picked up the sample cup of wine, swirling it a bit. "The ingredients will tell us if it _actually_ was an amnesia potion or something made to look like one. If it is temporary or permanent." She set the cup down with a soft tink and said carefully, "If it can be reversed."

Nick sucked in a breath, hands clenching around his mug. Rosalee still hadn't had any luck with a cure for Juliette's memory loss. Interrogating Adalind might be their only chance of finding one.

He watched the tea swirl in his cup. "If Adalind gets her memories back—_assuming_ she actually lost them in the first place—she's not going to retire to Boca and take up knitting. She's not going to tell us what she did to Juliette willingly. Letting things be as they are might be best for everyone."

"Not for you," Rosalee insisted.

"Maybe not." He huffed a soft, bitter laugh. "But no one ever died from a broken heart, right?"

Rosalee said wryly, "You haven't actually _read_ the fairy tales have you?"

Ha. If this were a fairy tale that kiss in the hospital would have returned Juliette's memories and he wouldn't be waking up alone every morning. He forced down a bite of muffin. "Nah, I like stories with happy endings." Seeking a change of subject he said slyly, "Speaking of…you and Monroe seem to be working on your own happy ending."

"We're doing just fine," Rosalee answered with a smile, cheeks pinking adorably.

"He really likes you. His last girlfriend was…." A vicious sociopath who thought slaughter was a fun way to pass an evening. "Let's just say she didn't support his lifestyle."

"I did get the feeling he hasn't done much…socializing with female company. Was she that bad?"

Nick shrugged. "Last time she was in town they went running in the woods and ate a bunny."

"Well," Rosalee said, blinking in surprise, "I can't say I'm sorry _she's_ out of the picture."

Secretly, Nick hoped she was picked up on one of the many warrants she had in Louisiana or Texas or Colorado and she would never darken Monroe's door with her presence again. He _liked_ Rosalee. She was good for Monroe in ways Angelina would never be.

"Oh, hey, before I go do you have any more of that powder you gave Monroe for the 4th of July? It's red and tastes nasty."

"Yes, of course. Does he need more?" She stacked her tea cup on the saucer and stood to take them to the sink.

Nick hastily finished his own tea, scraped the rest of the muffin into the trash, and dropped off the dishes then followed her to the front of the store. "He gave me some last night for a headache. It worked really fast."

"I'm not surprised." She gave him a disapproving frown. "It's formulated specifically for blutbaden."

Oops. He foresaw a lecture on not sharing meds in Monroe's future. "Um, it's not going to make me grow fur is it?"

She arched a brow. "I should say yes just to teach you a lesson about using wesen medications without consulting me."

Nick tried an innocent smile but he had a feeling it came out more like a shit-eating grin. "But you're far too nice for that."

That got him a narrow eyed look but a grudging smile as well. "Over the counter medicines aren't working?"

"At first." The pain was a constant thing now, more or less, but never entirely gone. "Not so much now," he admitted. And it _felt_ like admitting something, some weakness, which was ridiculous because as a Grimm he'd never been able to live up to the wesen world's expectations.

"That might be your Grimm metabolism changing." Rosalee pushed the ladder over a couple feet and climbed up to retrieve a blue glass jar from the second shelf from the top. "This should do the trick. And it's non drowsy so you can take it at work."

"I have a Grimm metabolism?" Nick took the jar from her so she could keep both hands on the ladder. "Is that really a thing?" He carried the jar to the counter, setting it down carefully.

"Of course." She pulled out a paper envelope, a tiny scoop, and a pen. "Have you noticed that you heal faster than you used to?"

Nick shrugged. "I've noticed that I can drink more before it affects me."

Rosalee rolled her eyes. Making a notation on the envelope she added several scoops of powder and folded it closed.

"What?" Nick leaned against the counter, straight-faced. "That's important."

One eyebrow arched.

Nick sighed at her lack of priorities but said, "I noticed that even though I was Tasered last night, I'm not as sore as I should be." And the bruises look nasty but once he'd gotten moving, worked out the stiffness, he hardly felt them.

"You were _Tasered _last night?" she demanded, voice rising on the last word. "What happened?"

He sighed again, "It's a _long_ story."

"Then you had better talk quickly," she suggested, folding her arms.

He talked. She nodded along, making horrified faces. "Good lord, no wonder you look exhausted today."

"Um, yeah, that's not the _only_ reason." He told her the story about Crystal (with a C) and Hank's unsupportive laughter.

"Oh, honey," she said. Unfortunately he had a feeling the hand over her mouth was less about shocked sympathy than hiding her own laughter. "It's a good thing you have today off. You need to take it easy."

"I have big plans for this afternoon involving the couch and the Duck's game on TV."

"That sounds like an excellent idea." She held out the envelope. "One eighth of a teaspoon in a half glass of water. No more than one dose every four hours and _only_ if you need it. If it doesn't work give me a call and we'll talk about a higher dose."

"Thanks." He tucked the envelope carefully into an inner pocket. "How much do I owe you?"

"Seven dollars even."

He suspected that was a steep discount, but since she was actually charging him this time he wasn't going to complain. "Is there some way," he asked as he put away his change, "to put together a list of people who could make a potion that would cause amnesia? People besides you and Adalind."

Rosalee frowned and looked thoughtful. "I might be able to give you the names of a few people I've heard of." She gathered her hair into a loose pony tail, securing it with a rubber band from her sweater pocket. "Unfortunately there are at least three other places in town you can get the ingredients you'd need and that's not even counting the internet."

"I'll take whatever you have." It would be a starting point, something to cross reference with Adalind's background check.

"Alright. I'll email you the names."

"Thanks. Call me when you have the test results?"

"Of course."

He wanted to down a dose of medicine as soon as he got in the car but he figured he had enough strange stuff in his blood stream already. No telling what would show up if the doctor needed more blood or urine or whatever. Half an hour later, under the bright fluorescent lights of the exam room, sitting on the cold, crinkly sanitary paper covering the exam table in nothing but his boxers and an equally crinkly paper gown, he was seriously rethinking that choice.

There was a warning knock on the door and then the doctor came in, Tablet tucked under one arm. "Mr. Burkhardt." He rolled the stool over and sat down. "I hear you had quite an adventure last night. Car wreck, dunked, Tased, and drugged. As your doctor I'm tempted to recommend a safer line of work."

"It's not like that every week," Nick said.

The doctor gave the bruises circling his wrists a doubtful look and clicked his stylus decisively. "Still have the headache?"

"Unfortunately."

"Well, to start with your vitals look good." He tapped at his Tablet a couple times. "Temp, heart rate, and blood pressure are just about perfect." The doctor frowned at his screen. "Which is a little odd considering how your night went."

Nick shrugged. "I'm a quick healer."

"Apparently. And I have the results of your blood tests."

Nick smiled nervously, wiping his palms on the paper gown. "Good news I hope."

"Actually everything looks just fine. No toxins, no elevated levels of anything, and while it's not one hundred percent guaranteed, there's nothing to indicate your symptoms are in any way cancer related."

Nick let out a breath he hadn't realize he was holding, feeling it all the way to his toes. "Good—that's really good."

Broncheau smiled, sharing his relief. "That being said I'm going to do some tests to make sure it's not neurological and also send you down for an MRI."

Three hours later he called Hank from the front seat of the car.

"How'd it go?"

"Well, I got my ears cleaned out."

"Man, I'm not even going to go with the obvious comment."

Nick grinned at the snarky tone. "The blood tests came back fine. The doctor said I had no serious neurological conditions—"

"I think we need a second opinion."

"—and the MRI was clean," he finished, smiling widely at the steering wheel. "He said the headaches and dizziness might be caused by an inner ear imbalance and that might be affecting how I sleep. They water-picked my ears." Apparently he was behind the times, last time he'd had his ears washed out he'd been eleven, there had been a little rubber bulb involved, and he'd spent the whole time squeezing his mom's hand bloodless.

"Man, I hate having that done." He could hear the shudder in Hank's voice.

"It's a little bit like my brain is leaking." Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the headache powder from Rosalee. He made a guess at the dose and mixed it into the remains of a bottle of water he'd grabbed out of the fridge this morning, shaking vigorously.

"Still not making the obvious comment."

Nick grinned. "I appreciate the restraint, partner." The white powder had the same flavor as the red Monroe had given him but it was a faint, bitter aftertaste and not the _only_ taste and was tolerable. "They couldn't find anything except some inflammation in one ear. I have a prescription to take for a few days to clear that up."

"That's good news."

It was. And it wasn't. His head still hurt like a-weekend-in-Vegas-hangover and if the prescription didn't work, he was back to square one trying to figure out what was going on. Maybe Rosalee had it right about an evolving Grimm metabolism.

He desperately needed to find time to search the trailer more thoroughly. One of his ancestors _must_ have written something about how the Grimm thing worked, must have studied it, married a geneticist, sent out a questionnaire…. Something.

He really needed his mom to reply to his emails.

"How are things at work?" he asked, not wanting to hang up quite yet.

"Slow. I think everyone has stopped doing crime out of respect for the holiday."

"Ha," Nick said dryly, "we could be so lucky."

"Hey, you volunteered. You could be eating the best turkey this side of the state line instead of working a double and having _tofurky_ for dinner."

"Bye now," Nick said quickly and hung up. Monroe had _promised_ there'd be no tofurky.

He made a quick stop by the pharmacy for his prescription and a second stop at a coffee shop. A buzz in his pocket sent him digging for his phone again as he joined the line. Rosalee's name appeared on the screen. It was text confirmation that both the wine and Adalind's blood contained traces of zaubertrank. He sent a quick THX and stepped up to put in his order.

He passed the news on to Hank and Monroe as he waited in the Pick Up line, humming along with the music drifting down from the overhead speakers, but didn't get an answer back from either of them right away. He was on his way out the door with a cup warming each hand when he realized what he was humming along to. "Son of a—" he bit back the last word as he passed a harried father trailing three kids and let the door close on the final strains of _Blue Christmas_.

He got on the freeway, headed for MacGruder Park and the Wells residence just up the road. It was an old house, solid and built mostly of local stone. It reminded him of the Rabe's house only there was less being slapped in the face by obvious wealth and more time to appreciate the solid construction behind the attractive exterior.

Parking in the big circular drive, Nick levered himself out and headed up the stairs. There was a wide, covered porch in a darker shade of stone that kept the rain off his head as he rang the bell and waited.

On the other side of the frosted glass inset, a large, dog-shaped shadow appeared. Serious sniffing of the mail slot followed then a sudden flurry of deep-throated barking. A moment later a man-shaped shadow appeared and Wells' deep voiced reprimanded, "Peanut. Hush."

The barking stopped and the door opened. "Grimm," he greeted. "Come in."

Nick eyed the grey-haired mountain sitting next to the door. "Peanut?" More like the whole elephant.

"Don't mind him. He doesn't have enough teeth left to do much damage." He ruffled the big dog's ears getting a gap-toothed doggy grin in return. "Peanut." He snapped his fingers in front of the dog to get its attention. "Ball."

Peanut headed off through the house in a thundering gallop and massive clatter of claws on hardwood flooring, tail whipping against Nick's knee as he went by.

"That will keep him busy for at least fifteen minutes," Wells said. "He's getting a bit on in years, can't remember where he's left his toys."

Nick rubbed his knee. It was the same one he'd bruised on the pallet slats last night. No lasting damage the doctor had said, just deep bruising that was going to hurt for awhile.

He followed Wells into a large, open living room. Lots of overstuffed chairs and couches and a flat-screen TV at the end. "Nice place you have here."

Wells smirked. "Not what you were expecting?"

"Well your other house is a cave sooo…."

"Ha, ha. Sit. Give." Wells made grabby hands at the coffee cups Nick was carrying. He took a drink and fell back against the chair, closing his eyes and emitting a long, deep, "Mmmmmm."

"I'm not sure it's _that_ good," Nick said, grinning at his beatific expression.

Wells opened his eyes. "Mom is on a no-caffeine kick which means everyone in the house is on a no-caffeine kick. I have to go to the cave to sneak in a cup. If this keeps up the family is going to move in with _me_." He took another long drink, sagging deeper in the chair with a satisfied sigh. "So what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Nick cut straight to the point. "Long-term group therapy."

"Oh I'm all in favor of it. Is it covered by your health care? Do you have to see your precinct psychiatrist or is there a list of available doctors?"

"Not for _me_." Nick glared, but not too hard, he _was_ trying to sweet talk the guy after all. "For kehrseite who have come in contact with wesen and need some help coping with the long-term effects."

"People like Collin Smith."

People exactly like Collin Smith, whose introduction to the wesen world had been violent and bloody and terrifying. But also people like Hank…whose introduction had also been bloody and violent but in a totally different way. And people like Juliette might have been if things had worked out differently. "Like a lot of people I run into during my day job who need to know they aren't alone in this."

Peanut went clattering past the door still searching for his ball, nails scrabbling at the tile flooring.

"And you're telling me…why?" Wells looked at him around his coffee cup and then his eyes narrowed. "No. No way. Seriously?"

"Collin said talking to you helped a lot," Nick insisted, leaning forward, "but he's going to need long term assistance. And, while there will be some people who have been let in on the secret by someone they know and just need a little help dealing with it, the majority are going to be just like Collin Smith. Victims of violent wesen attacks. They're going to need trauma therapy as well as help understanding what they saw. _You_ can do that."

Wells stared at him. "God, you've actually _planned_ this out haven't you?"

"I thought about it a little bit last night." While the paramedic was checking his pulse for the third time.

"Have you thought about a place to meet and how to get word out?"

"Is that a yes?" Nick grinned. "If that's a yes I have someone you should talk to."

"And there's the beaming smile," Wells grumbled. "Do you whiten every night or is it a Grimm thing?" He heaved a huge sigh like he was being asked to do something horrendously inconvenient. "Fine, but I have to be back by three."

"Great. I'll drive." Nick hauled himself out of the chair just in time to get knocked backwards by Peanut as the dog ran up with a basketball in his mouth. He dropped it proudly on the carpet, half-flattened and leaking saliva.

Wells shook his head, toeing the limp, sad basketball. "That's the third one you've killed this month, you nut."

Peanut thumped his tail happily, giving Nick matching bruises on his other knee.

() () ()

Nick hadn't forgotten Monroe's childhood story about his friend's dad getting pulverized by an ogre, but he figured what Monroe didn't know wouldn't hurt him and he had absolutely no intention of mentioning exactly what Camden Wells was.

Unfortunately he'd forgotten about Monroe's super nose.

The meeting went like this.

"Hey, Monroe, this is the guy I told you about. Camden Wells, this is Monroe."

Monroe drew himself up, sniffing deeply and with all the subtlety of asthmatic moose. He made a face like he'd smelled something bad and looked Wells up and down and said, "Aren't you a little short to be a siegbarste?"

"Aren't you a little _twitchy_ to be a blutbad?" Wells shot back. Nick _had_ warned _him_ on the drive over.

Nick slung himself onto the couch with a sigh. He'd get up if it came to blows and bloodshed and limbs flying off willy-nilly and, man, he'd forgotten how comfortable Monroe's couch was. There was a fire in the hearth, safely behind the screen, and a half-finished newspaper crossword on the coffee table.

"Don't mind him," Monroe said from somewhere above him. "He tends to meld with whatever furniture is handy."

Nick rolled his head enough to watch Monroe walk past. "It's your own fault," he said, "for having such a restful couch."

"If I'd known when I bought it that I'd have a Grimm lounging about I would have gotten the less comfortable option." He pointedly yanked a throw pillow away.

"Thanks." Nick sank into the newly created depression, boneless with warmth. "That was kinda in the way."

Wells snorted a laugh and even though Nick wasn't looking he was sure Monroe was rolling his eyes. He waved a hand in their direction, "You two discuss, plan, plot. I'm going to sit here and think quiet Grimm thoughts."

"Come into the kitchen," Monroe said, "I'll make us some coffee."

Nick let his eyes shut as their voices grew softer and more distant. He might have dozed, not completely asleep, but not really awake either, until something warm wafted near his nose and he reached out, snagging the mug that was inches from his face. "Thanks." He held it for awhile, warming his fingers, listening to the two men deep in a conversation about using the French press to achieve maximum beverage enjoyment.

"Do you know the Calvert Tea and Spice Shop downtown?" Monroe sat down on the couch, jostling Nick sideways a little.

"Only to pick up something for my Dad a couple times." Wells paused then added, "Didn't the owner get killed in a robbery? Mom mentioned something about it being on the news for a long time because of the rising property crime downtown. Channel 3 did an exposé or something."

Nick felt obliged to protest, "We caught the two idiots who did it."

"His sister is running it now," Monroe said.

Nick hid a smile behind his coffee mug. He doubted Monroe knew about the little _lift_ his voice got when he talked about Rosalee.

Monroe added, "That would be a good place to put out flyers."

"Speaking of Rosalee," Nick interrupted, "I may have—completely by accident—gotten you in trouble."

Monroe put on an aggrieved look. "What did you do?"

"I asked her for some of that red powder you gave me last night." He made a face. "She said something about it only being for blutbaden and would probably make me grow hair and want to sniff things."

"She did not," Monroe denied, outraged. Then he broke out in a delighted grin. "She totally would."

() () ()

Wells was quiet for half the drive back to the house. Nick was just turning onto Oakley when he burst out, "Okay, that was weird. A blutbad and a Grimm in the same room is bizarre enough, but then you…. You just sat. On his couch. You _sat_ on his couch."

"Yesssss," Nick agreed, confused that his use of the furniture for its intended purpose was the cause this little emotional freak out.

"You _sat_ on a _blutbad's_ couch."

Nick pointed out mildly, "You've said that already."

Wells threw him a look that was somewhere between aggravation and confusion. "Do you do that a lot?"

"What? Hang out with Monroe?" Nick made the turn that would take them past MacGruder Park. "He was really helpful when I was figuring out the Grimm thing." He glanced over to find Wells watching him with a look that he imagined a microbiologist might get when they discovered a particularly shocking sort of germ. "What?"

Wells shook his head. "Nothing."

He dropped the man at his front door, still looking bewildered and clutching the drive-thru cup Monroe had refilled for him. Those two were going to bond over flannel and expensive coffee beans, Nick thought with immense satisfaction, mentally adding one more check mark to Monroe's social column.

Next on the To Do list: wrap up Christmas shopping.

Monroe and Rosalee's presents were ready to be picked up at the frame store. Hank's was already wrapped and ready to go. Juliette's had come in the mail. Forwarded, since he'd ordered it two months ago, and promptly forgotten all about it. Giving it to her seemed like it would be…weird, but he couldn't bring himself to return it either. It was in his dresser, mocking him every time he opened the drawer, waiting for a decision. He wondered if Dear Abby had advice for this sort of situation.

He swung by the grocery on the way home, circling the over-crowded parking lot while he considered whether or not he could survive on what was in the cupboards until after the Holidays. It was only two days. He was pretty sure he could make it at least one on canned stew alone. There was always take-out.

The take-out option was looking more and more tempting when a spot opened up near the door. Taking that as a sign he darted in, took a moment to grudgingly admit that a small car had some advantages to his Toyota, and locked up. Heading into the store, he was nearly flattened by a woman pushing a cartload of cheeping, giggling children with a couple bags of groceries tucked in amongst them.

Literally cheeping. All four were woged into some sort of brown-feathered bird.

Nick did a double take, catching the attention of the youngest sitting in the very front of the cart. He waved and got a wave back. They were adorable with their big, black eyes and little, brown beaks. Loud but adorable.

It was as bad inside as he'd feared. He filled his cart with produce and dairy, threw in a couple steaks, made a pass down the snack aisle for the important stuff for an afternoon of bowl games (he had plans to text highlights constantly to Hank to mock him for having to work) then lingered in the floral department until the lines were short enough to make a quick getaway. While he was waiting, he found a nice bouquet in Christmas colors and made a side trip to the cemetery on the way home.

The rain started up again as he sat on his heels in front of Marie's headstone. He huddled into his coat, pushing aside a scattering of winter-browned leaves, and used gloved fingers to scrape away a new growth of moss creeping into the carved letters.

"There were oranges on sale in the grocery store," he said out loud. No one else was in the cemetery to hear. "They reminded me of that rental house in Florida. God, _that_ was a shock. You had to take me shopping because I'd packed nothing but winter clothes." It had been their first place after Marie had gotten through all the ins and outs of becoming his legal guardian. In the back yard there had been a stunted little orange tree, the perfect perch for a grieving twelve year old boy hiding from the world.

He'd spent hours watching the sun edging the leaves in gold, surrounded by the scent of ripening fruit and fresh mown grass from the neighbor's yards. They hadn't stayed long enough for the oranges to get eating-ripe but he still had that memory tucked away, warm and sun-washed.

There were moments he'd hated Marie for not telling him, for not training him, but those were the worst times, when his friends were in danger, when people died because of what he _didn't_ know. In quieter moments he couldn't imagine growing up like that, a childhood soaked in blood and smothered under generations of expectations. Couldn't imagine looking at Monroe or Rosalee or Bud or any stranger on the street and thinking _first_ about the best way to take down the animal and only second about the person they were.

He couldn't imagine living his mother's life. He wondered sometimes if that was why she had sent him away.

"I know you did what you thought was best for me," he said to the lowering clouds and laid down the flowers, bloody red against wet gray stone. "Merry Christmas, Marie."

Later, curled up on the couch under two blankets, TV on low, he spent far too much time searching through Christmas E-cards for his mom, hovering between sentimental winter scenes and funny dancing penguins. It was even odds that she would even check her email before Christmas but given the reasons he hadn't been able to even send one _last_ year this was…this was kind of a mind blowing moment.

That first Christmas after Marie's death had been hard. The last of his family gone suddenly and violently, leaving him with a handful of regrets and a moving van worth of questions he'd never get answers to. But he'd had work, which always kicked up a notch around the holidays, and the new and exciting Grimm thing to occupy his few free hours. And he'd had Juliette and her family who'd always gone out of their way to make him feel included.

Funny penguins, he decided finally. If anyone needed more laughter in their life it was his mother. He fell asleep on the couch and dreamed of penguin wesen. They were dancing like Snoopy, feet flying, and someone was playing a piano. Then a polar bear showed up. He thought it was going to eat the penguins but instead it started dancing too.

He woke up to the beeping of his alarm on his cell phone, groggy and dull witted, headache slamming into his brain as soon as he sat up. A hot shower and strong cup of coffee helped wake him up enough to decide breakfast would be…a mistake. A second cup got him to work.

"Wow, Nick," Wu said in passing, "you look like hell. You sure you should be here?" 

"Didn't sleep well," Nick said as he dropped into his desk chair. He scanned his email lazily, hoping there was nothing that would require him to move for at least an hour. There was a follow up with the lab on Adalind's bloodwork. An unknown substance had been found, but no recognizable toxins, which pretty much confirmed that someone had zaubertranked the crazy witch.

"More visitors?" Wu asked. "You know we can park a squad car on the street for a few days. That should scare off any stragglers."

Hank had enjoyed a large audience when he told the story of Nick's late night visitors. All four times.

"Just weird dreams," Nick told him. He rubbed dry, gunky eyes and stifled a yawn, making a mental note to ask Rosalee about side effects of the headache powder.

"Weird as in the good weird? Or weird as in realizing you're at a black tie ball wearing nothing but a clown wig and the big, floppy shoes?"

Nick turned his head to stare at the man.

"Or maybe that's just me," Wu muttered sourly and wandered off.

Hank passed by, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, partner, we've got finally got a tip on the Miller case."

Heaving himself back to his feet, he grabbed his coat and headed out. It was going to be a long day.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**WARNINGS: Crime solving. Dead bodies. Holiday depression. Winter nudity. Nick and Adalind having a heart to heart. Adalind having a heart. Swearing.**

_Author's Notes: I was about halfway through writing this story when I realized that the episodes I put it after happened in September and not December. I was completely convinced it happened near enough to Christmas that I could fudge it. Oh well, this way you get Nick at Monroe's house for Christmas dinner, which definitely needs to happen._

Nick woke up hanging off the left side of the bed. Again. Flopping onto his back, he dragged a cold, numb arm back into the warmth of the blankets and stared at the ceiling with a grimace for the pins and needles that surged all the way up to his shoulder.

The bed was too damn big. Every night he went to sleep in the middle and every morning he woke up scrunched onto the left side, trained by years of sleeping with a bed-hogging redhead.

He stumbled into the shower then downstairs to face the day. It was Christmas morning and the city was smothered under a weighty blanket of fog. Standing in front of the kitchen window, cradling a cup of coffee, he watched it creep across the lawn and lap at the trees and made a mental note to take his heavier coat. The house was cold and damp despite the furnace chugging away and he thought he was going to have to ask the landlord about a second dehumidifier.

As far as weather went fog was both good and bad. It kept people home, made them want to snuggle into the couch and turn up the thermostat. But there were also accidents on the roads, depression, and idiots who thought now was the perfect time to do that do that robbery or hide that body because everyone was staying inside.

He left the house twenty minutes early and was still almost late because the freeways were a fogged-in mess. The parking lot was near empty though so he got a good spot right in the front. He waved at Haversol at the front desk, turned down the offered homemade peanut brittle figuring he should at least wait until after ten am before he started on the double-shift sugar rush, and dropped off his own contribution to the precinct holiday buffet, a giant Tupperware of orange slices, snagging a couple before he headed up front.

Farley was the officer on duty for the day, a volunteer so Perry, the newest Lieutenant, could drive down to Beaverton to visit family and be back in time to make the evening shift. "Merry Christmas, Detective," she said, leaning against a desk as she studied the duty board at the back of the room.

"Merry Christmas. Got anything for me?" He offered her an orange slice.

"Been a quiet day so far." Sucking the orange, she grabbed a pile of message slips off the desk. "You can have the possible flasher at The Fields or the B&amp;E over on Pheasant Lane."

Nick pulled a face and said, incredulous, "Who the heck goes flashing in December? Outdoors?"

"Well if he was looking for a crowd he was disappointed. The park was empty except for a seventy-two year old grandma feeding the pigeons. She trapped him between the monkey bars and the climbing wall and called 9-1-1. Patrol's on the way to pick him up."

Nick asked incredulous, "How _exactly_ did she trap him?"

"Firearm in her purse."

Nick burst out, laughing, "Granny's got a gun. Awesome. Who else is in?"

Farley snorted. "Mortinson in a half hour."

"Oh yeah, I'm definitely taking the B&amp;E. Rookie can have the flasher."

Farley laughed and handed over the appropriate information. "All yours. Be safe. Check in before you head back, I may have something else for you."

The B&amp;E was a straightforward smash and grab made notable only by the fact that the homeowner actually had a list of stolen items _with_ serial numbers and pictures printed out, hole-punched, and organized alphabetically in a bright red three-ring binder.

"We were out of town for an early Christmas at the in-laws," Edward Wallace explained, looking at the empty places where the TV and computer had sat with a bemused confusion that said he was still surprised by the holes. "It could have happened anytime in the last week. My daughter got that laptop as a gift from her aunt." He huffed an ironic laugh. "We told her to leave it here because it would be safer."

Nick filled out a report, took the list, and promised them he would get the info around to the pawn shops and consignment stores. With the serial numbers there was a good chance some of it would be recovered. He helped the responding patrol officers, Pool and Benton, nail a piece of plywood over the broken out window and passed on a card for one of the eisbiber he knew who could handle that sort of repair.

"It's a shame this kind of thing has to happen during the holidays," Pool said as they walked back to their respective vehicles.

Nick was still stuck with the nondescript motor pool sedan. He missed his Toyota.

"Tell me, Detective," Pool continued, "that you'll catch these punks and restore my faith in Christmas."

"We'll catch them," Nick told him, fussing with his scarf to block out one more , "because Christmas is the time for miracles."

"Damn right," Pool said.

When Nick checked in, Farley had a follow up story about the rookie and the flasher in the park who turned out not to be a flasher at all.

"Mr. Karabella is a practicing nudist." She was snickering so hard he could barely understand her. "He locked himself out of his house wearing nothing but his slippers and the overcoat he'd thrown on to step out to get the paper. A friend across the park has his spare key…."

"So he headed over there to get it," Nick filled in. Personally he thought he might have busted out a window or something before wandering around in public like that.

"Rookie suggested he get himself a hide-a-key," she said still laughing.

Around noon he got a call that there was someone at the precinct to see him. She didn't want to give her name but she was willing to wait. He put off a planned slow graze of the buffet table (Renard's caterers had arrived with the main course and he figured he should stock up on actual ham and turkey since dinner was going to be…something else) and headed straight for the front desk.

Farley saw him coming from where she was still futzing with times on the whiteboard, "In the visitor's area, Burkhardt. If _she's_ a snitch you've moved up to a much higher class than your partner ever managed."

Nick rolled his eyes at the old joke. As senior partner Hank had introduced him to a lot of people from his Narco days who knew a lot about what happened in the less pleasant areas of Portland. None of them were likely to be described as high class except sarcastically.

Trotting down the stairs he swung past the front desk and paused when he saw the woman sitting on the third seat in the row of uncomfortable plastic chairs. She hadn't seen him yet and he had the unprofessional urge to duck back around the corner out of sight. He might have done it if she hadn't looked up at that moment and pressed her lips together like she was steeling herself to face him.

"Ms. Schade." He wished Rosalee had finished her tests; that she could tell him exactly what kind of zaubertrank was in Adalind's blood sample. It might be an acne fighting potion or it might be something far more sinister. "You wanted to talk to me?"

Standing, she tugged her jacket into place and clutched her purse in front of her like a shield. Her face was pale and set. "Do you have a few minutes, Detective?"

He wanted to say no. Really, _really_ wanted to say no, searching her face, her body language, for any sign of deceit.

She must have seen it on his face. Her eyes went sad and scared and she murmured, "Please. I…I don't know who else to go to."

_Dammit_. "Alright." He led the way to one of the interview rooms for privacy. "Have a seat."

"Thank you." She sat, purse clutched in her lap.

Nick did not sit. He leaned against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets because if he didn't he wasn't sure what he was going to do with them. He would treat this like any other interview, he decided, except the jury was still out on whether she was a victim or a suspect. "Have you remembered something about your case, Ms. Schade?"

"No, Detective, I'm afraid not."

"Then what can I do for you?" he asked. It was really hard to keep a polite tone when he wanted to grab her and shake her like a recalcitrant squirrel until she told him what she'd done to Juliette and why she wanted the key and who she was working for.

"I've been going through my apartment and the house that belonged to Katherine Schade." She paused looking at him uncertainly. "To my…mother. I've found some unusual and…disturbing items."

"What sort of items?" God only knew what Adalind's mother had in that house. The place looked like it had come out of a decorating magazine, shiny and perfect on the surface and completely lacking in all the things that should have made it a home. When forensics had finished with the living room, the place had been sealed up and had stayed that way so far as he knew.

"Herbs, odd…ingredients, books that seem to be…spells." She was watching his face closely as she spoke. He thought he did a fairly good job keeping a neutral expression but she said, "That doesn't surprise you, does it?" 

He hesitated for a moment, running implications through his head. On one hand, if Adalind had done this to herself as some sort of long-term scheme (something he was less and less inclined to believe but was clinging to with leech-like strength) he wouldn't be telling her anything she didn't already know. On the other hand, if she truly had lost her memories this was a potentially confusing and horrible thing to spring on her.

On the third hand, chances were she was going to figure it out on her own eventually so…yeah. He took a breath and said, "Because you're a witch. And so was your mother."

She stared at him, startled, and apparently not expecting such a straightforward answer. "A-a witch. Like Samantha on Bewitched?"

"Think more Snow White's evil stepmother."

"I see." She paused to collect her thoughts. "The…items were well hidden so I assume it wasn't something we advertised. How do you know about it?"

He finally sat in the other chair, scrubbing a hand over his chin, and admitted, "The first time I met you wasn't because someone was trying to kill you. That was the second time actually."

Adalind licked her lips then pressed them together again. He couldn't recall ever having seen the nervous habit previously and wondered if it was something she had trained herself out of in public or something new. "How did we meet then?"

"You tried to poison my Aunt while she was in the hospital dying of cancer and ended up sticking the needle in me instead." He still had the tiny, purple scar. "Luckily I wasn't sick like my Aunt so the effects weren't permanent." The nightmares had lingered: dreams of his muscles short-circuiting into paralysis, lungs straining for enough air. Then there was the one where a spider the size of Monroe's VW bit him in the hand then pulled him through the woods by his feet while he slowly suffocated. He'd learned to never watch a Lord of the Rings movie before bedtime again.

Her mouth opened in a perfect O. "Why would I do that?"

Nick shrugged. "You didn't exactly stick around to explain. I assumed you were following orders from whoever you were working for?"

"The law firm?" she asked, utterly bewildered. "Why would they want anyone dead? They could just," she waved a hand, "sue them until they _wanted_ to die."

"_Not_ the law firm." Although her wesen boss might actually work there. He'd never been able to establish a solid idea about who it might be, but there was no way was she acting on her own. Adalind—at least the Adalind he'd known—was a follower, an approval seeker. She might have come up with the means to kill Marie or the plan to get the key through Hank but the actual orders had come from higher up. "_This_ wasn't your day job." 

"Oh my God. You're not lying are you?" The purse fell to the ground as she stood, turning away from him with a hand over her mouth.

Nick watched her face in the mirror and wondered if he should get the garbage can from outside the door. Reluctantly, he let go of the idea that she was faking; that level of pale was pretty hard to manufacture spur of the moment.

"Oh my God." Whirling back around, she asked, aghast, "Is this why your partner couldn't stay in the same room with me?"

"Not," he hedged, "that _exact_ reason."

"Then _what_ exact reason," she demanded in a sudden return of willfulness. "What _else_ have I done?" The anger faded abruptly into miserable sadness, "The way he looked at me…. Like I was the worst person in the world. Like…like he hated me."

"You gave Hank a potion that made him fall in love with you and then threatened his life to blackmail me." Yep, there was a time when that sentence would have sounded strange to him. "He almost died."

She sat back down so suddenly she almost missed the chair. Silence filled up the room for a long, long minute. "Why," she asked finally, visibly upset, "am I not in jail?"

Nick gave her a humorless smile, all teeth, "If I had my way you would be. Unfortunately the courts don't exactly take witchcraft as evidence. They're shortsighted like that."

She stared at him for a moment, thoughtful. "Yet you are still investigating my case. Why?"

"Because it's my job. And because I want to know who else in Portland could manage a potion like that." Even if it was just to shake their hand and send them a nice gift basket.

"Who else?"

Lawyer. He forgot how quick she was. "With your mother dead, you are the only person I know who could do this sort of thing." Rosalee could do it but he wasn't going to bring her up. "I'm sure there _are_ others, but if there's a directory of Portland witches I haven't found it yet."

"And what will you do if you find them?" Blue eyes bored into him. "Can you make them reverse it? Can you get my memories back? Would you even try?" Her hands were clutching the edge of the table, knuckles white.

"Right now I'm not even completely convinced you're not faking the amnesia," he told her bluntly even though he was _mostly_ convinced that she wasn't. "Or that you didn't do it to yourself as part of some scheme." The look on her face actually went a long way towards convincing him she _wasn't_ lying through those perfect teeth.

"We've been through your financials, background, interviewed your co-workers, interviewed anyone who might have held a grudge because of your work—and there were _many_—and we've come up with nothing. Normally we'd ask the victim if they knew of anyone who might want to harm them but…." He waved a hand towards his own head to finish the sentence.

She nodded ruefully. "I understand."

"Doing _this_—erasing someone's _life_—that's personal," Nick said. "They didn't get a gun and shoot you or push you in front of a bus." He _might_ have put some thought into it. Just a tiny bit. "This wasn't a whim. They had a _reason_. They knew where you lived and they knew your schedule well enough to know when you'd be home."

She looked worried. "What makes you say that?"

"They infected you through a glass of wine, but there was no sign of the wine bottle anywhere in your apartment." He'd searched the cupboards, the dishwasher, the trash, the recycling bins. "The only fingerprints we found were yours and your cleaning service. There was a different shade of lipstick on the second glass. We're assuming female but…." He shrugged. There hadn't been enough lipstick to recover usable DNA, as if the second person present had only _pretended_ to drink.

"What does that _mean_?"

"It means you _knew_ the person you were drinking with well enough to let them in and they were smart enough to take the most damning piece of evidence with them." A bottle of wine might be traced to the manufacturer, to the store that sold it, and to the person who purchased it.

Nick's phone rang. Sliding it out of his pocket with two fingers he answered, "Burkhardt." It was dispatch letting him know Farley was looking for him. "I'll be right there."

Adalind retrieved her purse and stood as he did. "Thank you, Detective."

Nick shook his head in weary amusement. "I'm not sure that was a conversation that deserves thanks."

"For your honesty," she said. "At least I know the truth. It explains a lot." Her lips twisted into a contrite little smile he would never have thought Adalind Schade capable of finding the humility to accomplish. "And why everyone who knows me seems to either hate or fear me."

"You weren't a nice person, Adalind," he said bluntly and looked at her, really _looked_ at her. "Not many people get a chance to start over. You don't have to be the person you were." There were so many ifs and maybes in the mix but he really hope that she would take that chance and that someday he wouldn't have to kill her.

Adalind stopped fiddling with her purse strap, eyes big and serious. "Do you believe that, Detective?"

He told her with utter sincerity, "I think that if you go back to that life it's going to end badly." It was the same line he'd given to countless speeders, thieves, drug users, and working girls in his time on Patrol. As a Detective he picked up the bodies of the ones who hadn't listened. Unexpectedly, he realized that he hoped Adalind listened.

She searched his face again then gave a small nod. "Thank you."

He escorted her to the front lobby rather than snagging a uniform to handle it, partly to be polite, and partly because he needed to make sure she was out of the building.

"I wanted to let you know," she said as they reached the front desk, "that I'm going out town for two weeks. Apparently I inherited property in New York State when Katherine Schade died. I need to decide if I want to keep it or sell it."

"Which way are you leaning?"

"My flight leaves in three hours." Adalind smiled. It was small but genuine and for the first time he thought she really was a beautiful woman. "I can't think of a better place to make a fresh start than the other side of the country."

"Send us your contact information," he requested. "If—when— I find out something I'll let you know."

He watched until she was out of sight, made a ham sandwich from the buffet, and went to see what Farley needed, which turned out to be a body on the MAX out of Hillsboro.

"Likely a massive heart attack," the responding ME told him, squeezed in between the seats to do the cursory exam. "I'll let you know once we've finished the autopsy."

There wasn't much Nick could do other than go through the man's cell phone and wallet in a fruitless search for next of kin and make sure the details were forwarded to Missing Persons in case someone filed a report. He'd write up a report for the permanent case officer assigned to follow up. It happened every year, a body unclaimed, a life passing with hardly more than a ripple in the holiday obsessed city. It still made him a little sad.

The rest of the afternoon was weirdly quiet. He entered the serial numbers from the B&amp;E in the stolen property database then spent a couple hours trolling various online classifieds more out of boredom than any real hope he would find something so it was a bit of a surprise when he came across a seller with three out of six of the items on the list.

"Can't be that easy," he muttered to himself and sent an email saying he was interested in the 42 inch flat-screen but needed to know what sort of connections it had and could they provide pictures of the back of the TV.

Half an hour later he got a reply with several pictures obviously taken by a person with an excellent camera (possibly also stolen, he was trying not to prejudge) and a complete inability to frame a photo. Crystal clear in the lower left corner of the picture was half a label with the ending of the model and serial numbers.

"Hallelujah," he murmured, "it's a match." A partial match at least. He sent another email asking if he could come get the TV today, mentioning a willingness to pay a little extra for the inconvenience. Four minutes later a reply arrived with an address and instructions to ask for Jeff. "Aren't we just eager to get rid of the evidence?" He printed out all of the pictures and emails and headed over to update Farley.

"I suspect," Farley said, tilting the picture to get a better look at the serial number, "that this person does not have a single _complete_ family photo. Someone is going to be missing a head. Or Uncle Joe is just a leg and arm in the corner of the picture."

Nick said, "I think I'd like to find out personally."

"Take some friends," Farley ordered, handing back the printouts. "And go get a warrant even though you've been invited in. Captain will appreciate things neat and tidy."

"Yes, ma'am." While he was waiting for the warrant to print, he had dispatch connect him to Officers Pool and Benton.

"This is 29, go ahead."

"Officer Pool, this is Detective Burkhardt. If you're not busy I thought you might want to help me out with your Christmas miracle."

() () ()

Jeffrey—call me Jeff—Rush had a living room full of electronics. Some were still in their boxes. "I buy storage units," Jeff said. "Like those guys on TV. You'd be amazed the things you find in them."

"I bet," Nick said absently, eyeing the laptop sitting on the coffee table. It was shiny new and pastel pink and matched the picture Edward Wallace had taken of his daughter opening her Christmas present. "Buddy of mine found a body in one." When he looked back up, Jeff was watching him with a look of horror and disgust on his face. "It was a mummified dog. The owner apparently couldn't bear to be parted from dear Fido."

"That's only slightly less creepy," Jeff said seriously.

Yeah it really was. Wu had vowed never to go to another storage locker auction. "So," Nick said cheerfully, clapping his hands together, "let's see if we can get that TV in the car."

They did the deal. Nick passed over the marked cash he'd brought along then went out to the car, ostensibly to back into the driveway. Backup was waiting just around the corner. In less than five minutes Jeff was in cuffs sitting in the driveway with a betrayed look on his face.

They filled up one SD card documenting the living room and spare bedroom and ended up calling for help when Benton discovered the detached garage looked like a Radio Shack scratch and dent clearing house. At five forty-five Nick turned the scene over to Mortinson, who he'd brought along just so the guy wouldn't have to admit that the most exciting thing to happen his first week as a Detective was a not-flasher in the park. Although that wasn't a bad story either. In five years it would be something he'd deliberately bring up instead of avoid.

It didn't take long to get across town on nearly empty roads. The streets were lined with the tasteful displays of colored lights and, soft and glowing in the lingering fog.

Nick pulled up to Monroe's house, where good taste went to die. Gazing through the car window at the shock of Christmas decorations, he wondered if he could get away with wearing his sunglasses to dinner. He took another dose of Rosalee's powder instead and resigned himself to a lot of squinting.

Rosalee answered the door with a turkey-shaped oven mitt on one hand and a big wooden spoon in the other. "_You_ are late," she said archly, waving the spoon threateningly.

"Sorry, got caught up in a case," Nick offered, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the blaze of light spilling out the door.

"I suppose that's a good excuse." She waved him in with the spoon, laughing when he pretended to skirt widely around the threatening utensil then leaned in to kiss his cheek.

He detoured around the couch and much reduced train set to place two gift bags under the Christmas tree in the corner. "You look very nice," he told her sincerely as he straightened up, taking in the green silk blouse and black slacks. She'd curled her hair and pinned it back with a sparkly, Christmassy barrette.

Her eyes sparkled as much as the barrette. "Thank you." Relaxed and happy was a good look on her.

"Where shall I put these?" he asked, gesturing with the paper bag of oranges. He may have gotten a little carried away buying a whole case of the fruit, but it was such a good deal and they were surprisingly tasty for December.

Rosalee sniffed delicately. "Mmmm…oranges. They smell delicious."

The table was laid with full service on a lace tablecloth that had probably been hand tatted by Monroe's great, great, great something or another. Nick would have preferred a cheap plastic topper, one he wouldn't spend the whole dinner fretting about spilling cranberry sauce on.

"I'm terrified I'm going chip a plate," Rosalee murmured, smiling mischievously. "They were probably carried all the way from Germany by one of his ancestors."

Nick eyed the delicate, gold-rimmed place settings nervously. "Thanks for taking my mind off possibly ruining the tablecloth." Or breaking one of the glasses. "God, is that real crystal?" he whispered, folding both hands around the bag just so he wouldn't accidentally touch one.

"Probably," Rosalee said cheerfully. "He's laid out the food in the kitchen."

Monroe was pulling a sheet of crescent rolls out of the oven. "Hey, you made it. Merry Christmas!" He had on a holiday sweater that had a lot more red than Nick figured a blutbad probably should be wearing and nice charcoal grey slacks.

"Merry Christmas. Sorry I'm late." The kitchen was warm from the oven, the windows steamed over, and smelled like baking bread and pies and so, so many good things. "I brought fruit."

Rosalee somehow located a clean cutting board and six inches of free space on the counter. "There you go." She passed over a knife like the big hint it was.

"I should wash my hands," Nick said, edging around Monroe to get to the sink. "I've been elbow deep in stolen property all afternoon."

"Busy day?" Monroe asked, shuffling the hot rolls from the pan to a large ceramic bowl with quick, jerky movements, tongue stuck out the side of his mouth in concentration.

"Actually it's been oddly quiet." Washed and dried, he selected an orange and started slicing. "Adalind came by the station today."

"_What_?" Monroe and Rosalee said in stereo. They exchanged a look. "What did she want?" Rosalee asked.

"She discovered some unusual items hidden in her apartment and her mother's possessions." He slid the knife under a wedge and offered it to Rosalee. "Spell books, weird herbs, things like that."

Monroe popped another tray of rolls into the over and set the timer. "What did you tell her?"

"The truth. That she and her mother were witches."

Rosalee almost dropped her orange wedge.

"And," he took a deep breath and let it out, "that she tried to kill Hank and blackmail me."

Monroe whistled out a heavy breath. "Wow. What did she say to that?"

"She asked me why she hadn't been arrested," Nick said, throwing them a smile he knew was too sharp. He offered Monroe an orange wedge and took one for himself. "She also said she was headed back east to look at some family property and that she may stay there."

"Well you know what I say to that?" Monroe said. "Good _riddance_."

Nick leaned against the counter, gnawing his orange wedge contemplatively. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Monroe huffed. "You should be the first person telling her not to let the state line hit her in the posterior as she passes by."

"I'm sort of torn between wishing her gone and not wanting her out of sight."

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to find a cure for Juliette," Rosalee said apologetically. "With Adalind gone…." She trailed off, looking guilty.

Nick handed her another orange wedge, forgiveness in fruit. "Not your fault."

"It's very frustrating. I should have been able to do more." She switched the wedge to her other hand, licking her fingers clean of juice.

Nick pretended not to notice Monroe watching her so intently he almost set down a pie in midair. Had he and Juliette ever been that obvious? God, he hoped so. "Maybe they used a different recipe book," he suggested. "These things have been around for centuries, right? There have to be some variations out there you haven't heard of. One where someone used nutmeg instead of, I don't know, eye of newt."

"Eye of newt," Monroe said dubiously. "Is that a real thing? Do you have eye of newt at the shop?" The timer went off for the bread.

"Hmmm, maybe," Rosalee agreed reluctantly, with Nick not Monroe. "I've been going over my records and haven't found anyone who has bought more than two of the ingredients I was able to isolate from the zaubertrank given to Adalind. I do have a list of names for you though."

"Alright," Monroe interrupted heartily. "Pie is going in. It should be finished right about the time we're done eating. Annnnnd…." He pulled on his big oven mitts, reached into the oven, and produced an aluminum foil covered glass dish with a flourish. "Dinner is served."

It didn't smell like tofurky, which Monroe had promised to avoid. Actually it smelled like…_ham_. "What is it?" Nick asked suspiciously.

Monroe whipped off the foil with a little _ta da_ gesture. "Vegan ham loaf."

Nick exchanged a look with Rosalee who managed to say, "Yum that sounds…delicious," with a completely straight face.

"Are you allowed to eat _faux_ ham?" Nick asked teasingly. "Doesn't that cause," he waved a hand as he searched for the word, "…flashbacks or something."

"It's a perfectly acceptable part of the weider diet," Monroe said primly. "Grab a plate. I'll start slicing."

The vegan ham loaf looked like nothing so much as a large tube of Spam. Fortunately years of Aunt Marie's cooking had left him with a fondness for canned meat substances that served him well as Monroe carved up thick slices.

Nick told them the story of the not-flasher when they were all sitting down with full plates and full glasses and listened to Rosalee's childhood store about a squirrel that lived in their house a full month when she was a kid.

There was pie for desert, many types of pie, but the apple had just come out of the oven and there was ice cream to go on top.

"I may never eat again," Rosalee groaned, pushing back from the table. "That was wonderful, Monroe."

"Absolutely," Nick agreed.

Monroe eyed his plate dubiously. "You didn't eat much."

"I was lured in by the potluck at work," he said apologetically. His stomach was warning him he'd overdone it. "But I tried some of everything and it was all very good. Even the vegan ham loaf."

Monroe brightened and slid his chair back, offering, "I'll make you a doggy bag to go."

Nick bit his lip. Across the table Rosalee was hiding behind her wine glass. He mouthed _doggy bag_ at her as they gathered up dirty dishes and followed Monroe to the kitchen, fighting back giggles.

"I may have gotten a little overzealous with the food," Monroe babbled as he searched out Tupperware and old margarine containers, "but there were so many recipes I wanted to try. It's been so long since I've had a chance to cook for more than one person."

Nick oh so carefully set the plates in the sink, wincing when one slipped and tapped into another. He furtively checked for chips but it seemed alright.

"Well," Rosalee said, giving Monroe a nudge with her shoulder as she passed by, "there's nothing that says we have to wait for another holiday."

Nick started hot water running. "Hank would have come if he hadn't already agreed to dinner at his friend's house." Hank had been invited to Jarold Kempfer's for a day of football and food and the re-examination of a lifetime's worth of memories under a new, wesen-shaped light. "He'd be happy to come over a different night."

"Don't worry about washing those," Monroe said. "I'm going to stick them in the dishwasher."

Rosalee paused in the middle of lowering the glasses to the countertop. "Are you sure? They seem very…fragile."

"Oh, yeah, it's okay. I got them at an estate sale a couple years ago."

Nick looked at Rosalee, seeing the same bemused expression he was sure was on his own face. "So not some treasured family heirloom passed down through generations."

"Nope." Monroe grinned cheerfully. "They're a gorgeous set, but there were a few missing pieces so I got them cheap. First chance I've had to break them out."

Nick blinked. "Okay then. Dishwasher it is."

"How long can you stay?" Rosalee asked, as they rinsed and stacked.

"Officially I'm on call but if nothing happens—" On cue Nick's phone rang. He checked the caller ID. "Or not. Burkhardt." He handed Rosalee plates while Farley explained the situation and gave him an address. "On my way." Hanging up he typed the address into his phone and mapped it. "I've got to go," he said apologetically, wiping his hands a dishtowel and heading for the door.

"Wait, wait, wait." Monroe shoved a bag of assorted containers into his hands then pulled him into an honest to God _voluntary_ hug. "Thanks for coming."

It was possibly the quickest hug he'd ever experienced and he might have bruises from the hearty backslapping but he held tight to the feeling behind the gesture. "Merry Christmas," he said, _meaning_ it, as Rosalee got in a quick hug to. "I left presents under the tree," he yelled as he climbed into the car, stacking the food containers on the passenger seat. A small package wrapped in shiny, blue paper was tucked temptingly in the top of the bag.

Starting the engine, he glanced back to see the two of them standing in the doorway, leaning against each other and smiling. The surge of jealousy was sharp but brief, overwhelmed by happiness _for_ them both. He stayed for a moment longer, soaking up the warmth of too many Christmas lights, too much food, and two people who had taken him into their lives.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**WARNINGS: Nearly genuine police work. Squeaky cheese! Mmmmm…squeaky cheese. Renard being nice. Puking. There's mention of puking, which could be bad if you're a sympathy-puker**

Hank hung his coat over the back of his chair and dropped into it. "I hear you had an eventful holiday. A whole theft ring, really? Just couldn't resist, could you?"

"See what you miss when you're out having fun." Nick bent down to turn on his computer, bracing a hand on the desk as he sat up and his whole head _pulsed_. So far the antibiotics hadn't done a damn thing for his ear infection, but he still had six days' worth of pills to get through.

"Uh huh. How was dinner at Monroe's?" Hank sat, using his feet to pull himself up to his desk and reaching for his message pile. "Tasty?"

"Good. It was…really _good_." His own message pile was mercifully small and so was his email when he checked it. Brown in Property Crimes wanted to talk to him surprise, surprise. They were out of the office on an early morning raid involving two houses and four suspects in the robberies that had supplied Jeffrey—'call me Jeff'—with his ill-gotten electronics but expected to be back at ten and could Nick please come down for a chat.

Someone had filed a missing persons report for the body on the MAX yesterday. Nick forwarded that one to the detective the case had been assigned to permanently. Family notifications sucked even more around the holidays and he was fully embracing his better you than me policy today.

There was an email from Karen in IT, the persistent early bird of the department. She'd analyzed Jeffrey Rush's computer and found seven additional userID's for assorted websites that catered to local online classifieds.

_He used his birthday for all the passwords,_ was written in scathing Italics. _All of them._

He sent a thank you email to Karen and forwarded all the info to Brown figuring that's why Property Crimes wanted to talk to him anyway. With any luck he wouldn't have to deal with this case again until arraignment.

He looked up from his computer to see Hank frowning at a pink message slip. "How about you? How was dinner with the Kempfers?"

"It was weird at first, but good. It's been way too long since I've gotten to hang out with the two of them." He leaned back in his chair, content in a way that Nick hadn't seen in a long time. "We were talking about going to the coast this summer before Carly heads off to college."

"That sounds fun." He deleted a spam email for reverse mortgages, swung his chair sideways to shoot two balled up messages into the recycling bin, and said seriously, "If you go through Tillamook I will _pay_ you to bring me squeaky cheese."

Hank shook his head and attached one of his own messages to the side of his monitor with a strip of tape. "Squeaky cheese addict," he said fondly.

Nick didn't deny the accusation. It was Juliette's fault anyway. When she found out he'd never been to the Tillamook cheese factory she'd insisted they visit on their first weekend trip as a couple. He was not, he'd quickly decided, a big fan of the dairy farm smell but the finished product more than made up for it. Juliette had used his newly discovered weakness for the delicious and squeaky cheese curds to bribe him into stopping at every antique store and second-hand shop in a fifty mile radius.

"I've got to go down to evidence storage," Hank said, waving one of the message slips from his pile in explanation. "Something's gone wonky with the Suzie Allen case."

"Alright." Nick gathered up the folders from his OUT box, tapping them into line on his desk. "I'm off to beard the dragon in his den."

"Have fun," Hank said mockingly.

Nick knocked on Renard's door, waving the folders when the Captain looked up. Renard reached across the desk for them, motioning for him to stay. "Good Christmas?"

"Yes, sir," Nick said. "Surprisingly quiet."

"Good to hear." He stood and came around to lean on the edge of his desk, holding the three folders in one long-fingered hand. "I'm sure you're aware of the large number of personal days you've accumulated."

"I am." He'd used some of it the week he'd moved out of the house but hadn't really done more than scratch the surface.

Renard looked him over, reminding Nick that the other man had done his own time as a detective, was seeing the same thing Nick had seen in the mirror that morning: a near-permanent squint against too bright light, the increasing pallor of his skin, and shadows under his eyes. "If you need some time," Renard said, "let me know."

"Um…thanks. I'll do that."

"Please do. You've had a tough few months. It's easy to get burned out at this job if you don't give yourself time to recover." He tapped the edge of the desk with a thumb. "Particularly after the mandatory counseling sessions."

Nick winced. "I was going to schedule those, um, right after Christmas."

"I'm sure you were," Renard said blandly and left it at that. "Good job on that theft ring."

Nick shook his head. "Put it down to luck and one _incredibly_ organized dad." And the fact that Jeff had gotten sloppy and posted too many items from the same robbery on one listing.

Renard stacked the folders, shuffling them into order and settled them on his blotter. "Well, if you don't mind," he said dryly, "I plan on letting the Mayor and Chief believe it was the surpassing _skill_ of my detectives rather than blind luck and OCD tendencies that led to the arrest of the people responsible for seventeen _known_ robberies in the greater Portland area."

"Whatever you think is best, sir," Nick said cheekily.

Renard rolled his eyes and waved a hand at the door.

He was almost out when he remembered the flyer in his pocket. He pulled it out and waved it. "Did you get…?"

"Yes," Renard said, looking vaguely amused. "Apparently I'm signed up to bring beer."

Nick brightened. That meant they'd get the good stuff. He suspected he knew who had talked the Captain into that.

He spent the rest of the morning cleaning up paperwork and making phone calls. Hank came back just in time for lunch.

"Korean?" Hank suggested, spinning his chair with one foot.

Not feeling particularly hungry, Nick eyed the remnants on the table at the back of the room but figured peanut butter fudge and leftover Christmas cookies would not make for an adequate meal.

"Don't even think about it," Hank said following his gaze. "Mexican?"

Nick shrugged. "Sure." Hank's favorite Mexican place wasn't far from one of the names from the list of potential suspects Rosalee had emailed him. A little hole-in-the-wall shop that sold charms, protections, and knitted goods. They swung by after a quick meal of taquito specials. The shop was tiny, tucked in between a bakery and an adult emporium.

Hank peered through the large front window at the hand knitted scarves and shawls. "Seriously?"

Nick shrugged. "It's on Rosalee's list. There's a smiley face next to it though." The email had contained seven names along each accompanied by emoticons ranging from happy to sly to one with tiny devil's horns. That one, he figured, was probably not good recommendation.

Hank reached for the door handle, complaining, "I'm going to come out of there smelling like patchouli."

"Probably."

There _was_ incense but it wasn't patchouli. Sandalwood maybe and not overwhelming. The woman behind the counter was younger than he expected. Early thirties, pale skin, dark hair in a sloppy ponytail, wearing a t-shirt with _Quack Attack_ emblazoned across the front and black rimmed cat eye glasses straight out of the 50's. She was…robustly built and Nick was a little surprised Hank didn't immediately turn on the charm. Maybe it was the witch thing. Couldn't blame the guy for being gun shy, so to speak.

Nick flashed his badge. "Marica Phipps?"

"That's me." She smiled politely. "What can I do for you?"

"We need to ask you a few questions," Hank said. "About Adalind Schade."

The smile went a notch wider. "You must be Rosalee's friends."

Nick asked, "She told you about us?"

"She mentioned you would be by." Marica leaned on the counter, eyeing Nick with a thoughtful frown. "So you must be the Grimm."

"You can tell without woging?" Nick asked, figuring it was more likely Rosalee had passed on a lot more than a warning they would be dropping by. It would be difficult to confuse him and Hank even by the roughest description.

She smiled again and shook her head. "Oh, I'm not wesen. Or at least, not wesen enough. There's fuchsbau in the family tree but it's three or four generations back. Usually I could tell by your aura but _both_ of you are a little…off." She gave them a thorough once over. You," she pointed at Hank, "oh, honey, you are all…." She wiggled her fingers like octopus tentacles. "Jumbly."

"Jumbly," Hank repeated skeptically. "That does _not_ sound good."

Marica rested her elbow on the cash register, chin in hand. "Oh, it's not necessarily a _bad_ thing." She flicked a glance at Nick. "But," she continued, heavily-lined eyes narrowing at Hank, "in your case it _definitely_ is. I can see why Rosalee sent you to me." She turned to a drawer behind her, digging into one of the many small boxes inside. "What did you want to know about Schade?"

"How do you know her?" Nick craned his neck to see what she was looking for. There was a truly manic level of rustling coming from the drawer.

"She shopped here a few times. Specialty stuff." A zip-lock bag emerged and was tossed onto the counter with a rattling thump before the rustling commenced again.

"What did you think of her?"

"Well," Marica added several more bags to the pile and paused thoughtfully, "she always picked up her orders, always paid promptly, but frankly she was a _leeeettle_," she held up a thumb and finger spread as far apart as they would go, "bit of a bitch."

Hank coughed out a startled laugh. "Leave out the little bit and I'm in complete agreement."

Marica laughed. "Know her do you?"

Hank said uncomfortably, "Ex-girlfriend."

"Oh, wow. _Wow_. Bad choice there. Still you got the ex part right." Apparently satisfied with her finds, she closed the drawer and turned back to face them, choosing a length of leather cord from a display on the counter.

"It wasn't exactly my choice to begin with."

"Ohhhh. Well, that explains the…." The octopus fingers reappeared. "Is that why you're here asking questions?"

"Ms. Schade turned up in the hospital a few days ago," Nick said, "with no memory."

In the middle of opening the bag Marica stopped dead, staring at them wide-eyed. "_No_ _way_. Rosalee didn't mention _that_. Do you know who did it? Oh," she bopped herself in the forehead, "stupid question. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"It is," Hank confirmed. "You know anything about amnesia potions?"

Marica shook her head. "Zaubertrank_s _aren't really my thing."

"What exactly is your _thing_?" Nick asked. This store was as different from Rosalee's shop as a deer from a parrot. It was brightly lit with florescent and spotlights, which Rosalee declared would degrade her product.

Lots of knitted goods: sweaters, hats, scarves, ponchos. There were also bins of crystals and semiprecious unpolished stones, dragon and unicorn statues, a rack of novelty t-shirts, and books with titles like _ABC's of Magic _and _Native American Myths and Legends_. One entire four foot section was devoted to empty glass bottles of all sizes and colors. Another section was made up entirely of driftwood and interestingly shaped knots and sticks.

"There's a lot of magic in the world that isn't found in herbs and potions," Marica explained. "We mostly deal in stones, wood, and glass. And wool. But its biggest magic is that it keeps you warm even when wet. Very important west of the Cascades."

"And you do that," Hank said.

"It's a family thing," Marica told them. She dug into the bags and began threading beads onto the leather string. "I assume you're looking into Adalind's business acquaintances?"

Nick nodded. "And past clients at the law firm. Can you think of anyone else who could do an amnesia potion?"

"If her mother wasn't dead she'd be first on the list."

"Adalind's mother?" Hank asked, startled.

"That woman was a piece of work. It's no wonder Adalind turned out like she did growing up in that house." Marica held up a bead to the light, squinting at it, and rejecting it. "The Prince kept Adalind in line when she worked for him. No one knows what happened, but when she stopped working for him she sort of went off the deep end." She waved her finger in a circular motion at her temple.

Nick exchanged looks with Hank. "You're saying Adalind works for the Prince?"

"_Did_. Used to lord it over us regular ol' peons, you know." She threaded a couple beads onto the leather. "Every time she picked up an order we had to hear about how she was doing this and that for _the_ _Prince_ or she was on her way to a meeting with _the_ _Prince_. Blah, blah, blah."

"Did she ever tell you a name for this Prince?" NIck asked.

"Nah, I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that."

"What about where he worked? Or where she met him?"

"Ummmm…." She picked out another bead and folded up the bag it had come out of, laying it aside. "Not that I can recall. It's not the kind of thing you go into detail about with casual acquaintances. Even her. She wanted attention but she wasn't stupid."

Damn. That would have been too easy. "Did she ever have items delivered?"

"A couple times I think."

"Do you still have the addresses for the deliveries?" Hank asked.

Marica nodded. "Should have. On the computer." She tied a knot and handed the whole thing to Hank as she moved over to the keyboard. "Let me take a look."

Nick asked curiously, "Can you do a printout of her entire purchase history?"

"Sure."

"Uh," Hank said, staring at the bracelet in his hand, "what's this?"

Marica glanced at him over her glasses. "Howlite to help the insomnia, turquoise for protection, opal for healing, and quartz. Lots and _lots_ of quartz. Like, _five_ kinds of quartz."

"Uh huh." Hank examined the bracelet gingerly. "And what's the quartz for?"

"Lots of things, but mostly we want to suck out the bad humors."

Hanks eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "I have bad humors?"

"And here I thought it was just a bad _sense_ of humor," Nick muttered and got an elbow in the ribs for his trouble.

Marica nodded seriously and poked a couple more keys. Somewhere under the counter a printer hummed to life. "A zaubertrank_,_" she explained seriously, "alters your body chemistry, but it also affects your spirit. Your body eventually returns to normal as the potion is passed on or cured or whatever, but it leaves behind a mark. Think of it like supernatural grape Kool-Aid, everything it touches gets stained." Pulling paper out from under the counter she held it out to Nick. "Here ya go."

Invoices. Two of them. And the delivery addresses were…. "One went to the law firm and the other to Adalind's apartment." The third page was the purchase history, a lot of dates and words that meant nothing to him. Folding the papers, he tucked them into a pocket for Rosalee to take a look at later.

"How do you know about Grimms," he asked Marica, "if you're not wesen?"

Marica left the computer to lean on the counter again. "Oh, my family has been avoiding Grimms for centuries. Witches and Grimms…." She blew the bangs out of her eyes and waved a hand around. "Let's just say we don't always get along, what with the burnings and drownings."

"Burnings and drownings?" Nick asked alarmed. Good God, what had his family done now?

"Back in the old days. Not so much now." She pointed at Hank, "Wear that against your skin for fifteen days then come back and see me again."

"For the bad humors," Hank said skeptically.

"Yep."

"Okay then." Hank gave him a _look_, the one that said: If you're done with the questions let's get the heck out of here.

"Well, I think that's all we need for now. Thank you for your time, Ms. Phipps."

Hank held up the bracelet. "How much do I owe you?"

"No charge," she said airily. "Any friend of Rosalee's and all that."

"You know you're going to have to wear that," Nick said when they were out on the street. "Rosalee's going to ask."

Hank made a face. "The problem with putting it on is that people are going to _see_ it."

"Hey, you could wear it like an anklet," Nick suggested, resting his hands on the car roof while he waited for Hank to unlock the doors. "You know, like little girls do."

Hank _glared_ at him and got into the car.

"Well, _I_ thought it was a helpful suggestion." Nick opened the door quickly before Hank could lock it again and leave him standing on the curb. He made a show of feeling his forehead and cheek, checking to make sure that glare hadn't taken skin off.

Hank rolled his eyes at the dramatics. "Well, that was…different," he commented. "She's a special sort of….special."

Nick sighed noisily. "Yeah, yet another group of people my ancestors persecuted and ostracized."

"At least they did _something_ besides behead these guys."

Nick smiled, reluctantly allowing himself to be cheered. "That was getting a little old." He leaned over to turn on the radio certain that it was safe now that Christmas was over.

—_When a heart breaks, no, it don't break even—_

Switch.

—_If she's lonely now she won't be lonely long—_

Switch. Quickly. That didn't even bear thinking about.

—_Baby, sometimes love just ain't enough—_

"Oh for the love of…!"

"Just put on the MP3," Hank suggested, clearly laughing at him. "I cleared all the depressing love songs off after my last breakup."

Nick pushed the button.

—_I'm friends with the monster living under my bed….—_

He leaned his head against the side window letting out a slightly hysterical laugh. "How is this my life?"

"Hey, look on the bright side."

Nick dutifully asked, "What's the bright side?"

"You have a handsome, brilliant partner to get you through these troubled times."

Nick smiled. "Oh well there's that." The cool window felt good against his forehead. Until Hank hit a pot hole. "Ow." He slumped into the seat, letting his head fall back against the head rest.

"You doing alright?" Hank asked. "You're kind of quiet today."

"I'm okay."

Hank gave him a sidelong glance.

"Tired mostly. And the weather isn't helping."

"I hear you there. News last night said we're close to the record for most sunless days in a row."

"Yay us." He'd been living here long enough the gray and the rain didn't bother him much, but lately he found himself thinking fondly of sunny skies. Maybe Wu's depression pamphlets had a point.

"You should talk to your homeopathic friend about it. You said the doctor didn't find anything, but you're obviously not one hundred percent and it ain't getting better on its own."

Nick frowned. "You think it might a zaubertrank?"

Hank shrugged. "Everybody else has gotten nailed with one, why not you? Maybe this was Adalind's plan from the start. Dose you with some concoction…

"And then conveniently lose her memory so she can't be blamed," Nick finished.

Hank added ominously, "Or have an antidote beaten out of her."

"I wouldn't put it past her," Nick agreed, "but I already talked to Rosalee about it. She thinks it might be my changing Grimm metabolism."

"You have a Grimm metabolism?"

"Apparently," Nick said with a sigh.

Hank pulled into the PD garage, claiming a parking spot fairly close to the stairs. "You, my friend, need a tropical vacation. Two weeks on the beach drinking things served in tall, frosty glasses will cure anything."

"Didn't you take your _second_ wife to Hawaii on your honeymoon?"

"And it was the high point of the marriage," Hank said. He shifted into Park and turned off the engine. "Don't slam the door," he warned, "this isn't your busted up ride."

Nick chuckled and shut the door with overmuch care, ignoring Hank's mild glare. "Since when did you start listening to rap music anyway?"

"What? I can't broaden my tastes?"

"If you start listening to rap, I'm going to have do the driving more often."

Hank clucked his tongue mockingly. "Say that again when you actually _get_ your vehicle _back_, partner."

() () ()

The house was cold when he got home that evening. The thermostat said eighty but it felt more like fifty. He nudged it up until he heard the heat pump kick on then went to search the refrigerator for something that looked appetizing. Failing that, he settled for toast and peanut butter and a glass of milk, followed up with a long, hot shower.

By six he was tucked up on the couch in his PJs with a mug of hot tea, a blanket, and his laptop, paying absent attention to the TV. Sometimes he could pick his next case watching the evening news. A good day was when he wasn't already involved with anything featured on _Continuing Coverage_.

Still no news from Mom. He didn't know if that was good or bad. Instead of dwelling on why she might not be able to respond, he sent scores from the Christmas bowl games. His dad, Nick remembered, had spent football season working his way through a steady stream of mystery novels. Mom had watched every game and had a complicated system for deciding which team she would cheer for. It included any team coming from any state she'd ever lived in (which was a lot). If both teams were from states she'd lived in, support was determined by duration of habitation in said state and type of mascot.

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke, overheated and nauseous, face to face with a darkened computer screen. Shutting the laptop, he set it on the floor next to the couch and struggled into a sitting position.

It was dark outside, rain blowing against the windows in noisy sheets. He ran a hand through sweaty hair, scraping it back from his face and tried to see his watch in the light from the TV. The news was long over, replaced by some reality show he didn't recognize.

Resting forearms on thighs, he sat for a few minutes trying to get his thoughts together. He felt sick and achy and feverish and, seriously, _no_ he was absolutely _not_ getting the flu.

The room was mostly dark except for the lamp, and the light from the TV was _stabbing_ into his brain. Fumbling for the remote, he turned it off then pushed to his feet, swaying a little as he waited out the head rush and dizziness.

The trip upstairs took forever, one hand on the wall, stomach flipping and that dreaded feeling of sickness rising up in the back of his throat. He almost forgot to step over the tripwire and bumped into the bedroom doorframe on the way by. He didn't even attempt to hit the light in the bathroom, relying on what illumination made it through the window to get to the toilet just in time.

Crouched over the bowl, retching helplessly, he was struck by three things. One, he was really glad he'd just cleaned the bathroom. Two, vomiting was _not_ good for a headache. Three, milk did _not_ taste the same coming back up.

He pulled himself up enough to rinse his mouth at the sink then sank back down, shaky and weak. Bed…in a minute. The cold felt so good against his legs, he decided that stretching out full length on the floor was an excellent idea, pressing his face against the tile. Yeah, that was nice, that was good. He'd just stay right here for…ever.

It was, he reluctantly admitted, entirely possible he had the flu.

TBC

_Author's Note:_ See just a tiny cliffhanger.


	12. Chapter 12

**WARNINGS: More icky puking. Massively massive cliffhanger of doom. Bwahahahaha. Oh yeah, some bad language, hurt/comfort, sickness, blah, blah, blah…onto the Nickwhump!**

"Nick. Hey. Nick!"

He squinted vaguely up at the Hank-shaped shadow kneeling over him, rubbing damn sharp knuckles briskly up and down his sternum. "Hey, you awake?" Hank asked.

"Blerg," Nick mumbled unwilling to commit one way or the other.

"Let's get you off the floor."

That was a _very_ bad idea. He was going to tell Hank what a _very_ bad idea that was, but his partner had already hooked him under the arms and pulled him to his feet.

"That was a bad idea," Hank said a second later.

Nick was too busy hanging onto the toilet to do more than nod vague agreement in between heaves.

Hank let him lay back down on the floor afterwards, coming back once to drop a blanket over him. Floor was good. Floor was solid and reliable under him in a world that continued to move even behind closed eyelids. He was certain he'd never appropriately appreciated floors before.

He didn't fall asleep so much as zone out. At least he didn't think he'd fallen asleep, until a tremendous _thump_ from downstairs shocked him awake. Another thump and voices echoed up the stairs. His gun—_shit_—his gun was on the nightstand. Sluggishly peeling his body off the floor, he crawled to the sink and dug into the cabinet for the knife he kept tucked into a half empty Kleenex box.

It wasn't a big knife—dagger, Monroe would correct—one he'd picked up at a pawn shop to practice his sharpening techniques before he touched any of the family memorabilia, and kept because apparently weapon hoarding was genetic. Pressing back against the bathtub, he listened to footsteps coming up the stairs.

"…just saying it's bordering on paranoid."

Nick relaxed, recognizing Monroe's voice. And then Hank's, "You know what they say: it's only paranoia if they _aren't_ trying to kill you."

"Nick." Rosalee poked her head around the doorframe, reaching over to flick on the overhead.

Nick groaned and hid his eyes against his knees.

The light went off again. "Sorry." Rosalee knelt next to him and put her hand on his wrist. "Nick, why are you sitting in the dark with a knife?"

"Dagger," Monroe corrected. "See the double edged blade. That makes it primarily a stabbing weapon."

He tried to explain over top of Monroe, "There was a noise…."

"That would be me," Hank said from the doorway, "forgetting your new penchant for home safety."

"At least we know the tripwires work," Monroe said cheerfully.

Nick could _hear_ the evil look Hank must be giving the other man. He handed off the knife to Rosalee and let his head sink back down to his knees with a little groan. His brain felt soggy and hot and it was painfully hard to form useful thoughts.

"Let's get him into bed," Rosalee said, standing and edging backwards to clear a path.

"Slowly," Hank cautioned. "Last time…didn't work out so well."

Before he could protest that he could walk on his own, thank you very much, he was pulled to his feet. Hank on one side, Monroe on the other, all three of them turning sideways to squeeze past the sink and toilet. The bathroom had never seemed so small before.

The change in elevation sent a shock of jagged, red pain through his head as his vision grayed out in a slow, tilting wave of dizziness.

"Whoa," Hank said, staggering sideways a couple steps as Nick's weight landed on him.

Nick muttered, "Sorry," and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that walking would be easier if he wasn't watching the world spin in a great heaving swirl of color, punctuated by bright white squares he thought must be the windows.

"Going down," Monroe warned. The bed came up under him and he grasped the covers hard with both hands.

Small, cool hands settled on his arm and his forehead. "Nick," Rosalee said unhappily, "you're feverish."

He _was_ feeling a tad warm. Rolling onto his stomach, he buried his face in his pillow. It still smelled faintly like Juliette because he hadn't quite gotten around to washing it since he moved out. Weirdly, it made him feel a little better.

The bed shifted as Rosalee sat down next to him. "Nick, hey, I need you to tell me what symptoms you're experiencing."

Blinking open watering eyes, he stared at the fabric centimeters from his nose and turned his head an inch for easier breathing. Symptoms….symptoms…sympt—

"He's been having headaches," Hank supplied, apparently deciding Nick was taking too long. "Dizziness. Loss of appetite."

Nick mumbled, "I have not."

"When was the last time you ate?" Rosalee asked.

"Lunch. And I had a snack when I got home." Although he didn't think that really counted. "I sort of threw that back up."

Hank snorted. "Two bites of taquito and half a Coke doesn't count as lunch. And that was yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Nick repeated, not sure he was hearing that right. Every word made his head _throb_. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars, trying to compress the pain into something manageable enough he could wrap his head around the idea that he'd spent all night on the bathroom floor.

"You didn't show up for work this morning," Hank said. "When you didn't answer your phone Renard gave me a call."

Right, Hank had taken the morning off for an appointment. Crap, that reminded him that he still needed to schedule his mandatory counseling sessions. Renard was only going to let him avoid it for so long.

"Monroe," Rosalee said, "will you bring me my bag please." Her hand rested on the back of his neck, cool and comforting.

Monroe's shoes scuffed on carpet for a few steps then echoed on hardwood, thumping hastily down the stairs. Nick could hear him shuffling around in the living room.

Rosalee squeezed the back of his neck gently, drawing his attention back to her. "Is this what you went to the doctor for?"

He made a sound of assent. "They didn't find anything."

"Well," she said, patting his shoulder reassuringly, "I have a few tests I can do for things I bet they _never_ thought of."

Rosalee would have made a great doctor. He wondered how many wesen doctors there were out there. Were there offices and clinics exclusive to wesen? And would they even think to check for something like a potion. Zaubertranks seemed to be looked upon as something like black magic in the wesen world, something talked about in tales and stories but never seen by the bulk of the population. It seemed like something he should remember to ask about…later.

He pulled the pillow over his head and stayed that way until Monroe came thumping back up the stairs with the thermometer. The edge of the pillow lifted and the cold tip intruded into his ear, but it didn't require him moving and at the moment that was a blessing. Eventually there was a beep and the thermometer went away allowing him to doze.

Until a sharp, _stabbing_ pain in his finger woke him. He startled and jerked halfway upright, then slumped back down as the sudden move made his whole body _ache_. Squeezing his eyes shut, he buried his face in the bed, bringing one hand up to press against his forehead. The other hand seemed to be trapped, gripped at the wrist and his suddenly sore finger squeezed hard.

"Sorry," Rosalee said from very close by. "Blood is the fastest way to get test results."

"M'kay," he mumbled. "Whatever you want." A little warning would have been nice. God, even his _joints_ ached.

"Whatever, huh?" she said archly.

"You know he used to make promises like that to me," Hank said teasingly. Nick hadn't realized he was still in the room. "Usually to bribe me into a donut run."

Ugh, donuts didn't even _sound_ good right now.

"Really? I had no idea he had such a sweet tooth."

Nick worked on summoning up the energy to complain about being talked over while he was right _there_, but someone laid a cold, wet rag on the back of his neck and he was forced to relax into the sheets with a ragged sigh because _damn_ that felt good.

"I've got to head back to work," Hank said. "Call me if there's any change."

"Of course."

Something nudged his foot on Hank's side of the bed. "I'll be back in a couple hours."

"Mhmmfh," Nick said.

Hank chuckled and patted his calf. "And I'll let the Captain know you'll be out sick tomorrow at least. He's called twice already to check on you."

Nick mumbled vague then focused on not moving until Rosalee came back and prodded him into sitting, pushing the _Bottoms Up_ shot glass he'd gotten in Reno into his hand, and saying, "Drink this." It smelled like kiwis and was slimy like snot but there wasn't much and he got it down in one nasty gulp. She made him follow it up with half a glass of cool water then allowed him to lie back down and bury his head again.

He drifted in and out, vaguely aware of them moving around him. Rosalee came back at least once, sitting on the edge of the bed to poke the thermometer in his ear and make unhappy sounds at whatever the readout said, but it seemed to him everything hurt a little less so he thought the kiwi-snot was working.

The next time he woke it was because Monroe was nearby, talking in what was undoubtedly supposed to be his _quiet_ voice. "Are you _sure_? I mean, I'm sure you're sure, but…are you _sure_?"

Rosalee did not sound patient when she answered, "I did the test _three_ times."

"Oh well…I guess you are sure."

"Monroe," Rosalee hissed. "Do it."

"Oh, God. I think _you_ should ask him."

"Monroe!"

"Alright, alright." The bed jolted then sagged and the pillow was peeled back from his head. "Hey, um, Nick."

He tried to ask what they wanted but it came out more like, "Ngggh."

"Oh good, you're awake. Rosalee wants to know—_ouch! _I'm doing it!I'm asking!"

Nick roused enough to fix the twitchy man with a bleary look. "_What_, Monroe?"

"Just wondering if you've been harboring strong feelings for…anyone in particular…uh, lately."

"_Monroe_!" Rosalee growled.

"Hey, I _asked_."

Rosalee harrumphed. "Nick, who do you love?"

"See _that_ makes it sound like that song—"

"Shush," Rosalee said. She took a deep breath, blowing it out through her nose. "Are you still in love with Juliette?"

Nicks squinted up at them. "Uh, yeah." They'd woken him up for _that_?

Monroe heaved an exaggerated sighed of relief. "Well that makes it easier." There was a pause. Then, "Oh no, no, no. That really _doesn't_ make it easier at _all_."

Rosalee shushed him again. "Nick…" she began.

Shit. That tone of voice never ended in anything good. Aunt Marie had used that particular tone every time she'd told him they were changing states.

"Nick," she said again, squeezing his arm gently, "I've finished the tests."

"Mmhmmph," Nick said. Working a hand up, he pushed sweat-dampened hair off his forehead. "That was fast." He fumbled for the controls for the electric blanket, certain he'd left them on high.

"Actually it took far longer than it should have," she said. "Your symptoms threw me off."

"Symptoms?"

"They're all over the place and frankly confusing as hell. But I've narrowed it down to a type of zaubertrank we're sadly familiar with." There was a heavy pause. "From when we were trying to cure Hank."

He muzzily pointed out, "Hank didn't have the flu."

"No," Rosalee said, "and neither do you. I'm talking about when Hank was _dating_ Adalind."

Monroe, thank God, interrupted with a Cliff Notes version. "You're love sick, buddy."

What?

His brain stuttered, jumping from _who_ to _how_ to _what the fuck._ What did that mean exactly? Was he going to end up hexed into a coma like Hank? "I haven't been with anyone since Juliette," he said, just to make that perfectly clear. He certainly didn't have any deep and obsessive need to _be_ with anyone…except Juliette. But they _couldn't_ mean….

"It's _not_ the _exact_ same kind of zaubertrank Adalind used," Rosalee explained, emphasizing the important words with a squeeze of her hand. "Just in the same family."

So no creepy, red-eyed coma. "Oh…good." He squinted up at them, frowning at the matching expressions of dismay. "Not good?"

"Normally symptoms would show up right away and grow progressively worse. We would have had a chance to fix it before you got this bad." Rosalee patted his arm. "I think that, because you're a Grimm, you fought it off until you were so worn down it hit you all at once."

Great. Another mark in his mental 'Con' column of Grimmness. It was rapidly outstripping the Pro side. "So I'm sick 'cause of the spell?" Monroe and Rosalee both hated it when he referred to these things as spells, had recited lengthy treatises on how zaubertranks were based on herbs and medicines not voodoo and witchcraft. But it was such a _looooong_ word and his throat hurt.

"The _potion_," Rosalee clarified, "is making you sick because you've been separated from the other person involved for too long."

"Which is Juliette," Monroe put in helpfully. "We hope."

"Don't worry, I have everything we need for the antidote at the shop and we know who the other party is. We'll have you fixed up in no time." Rosalee patted his arm comfortingly. "I want you to try to rest. I have to go to the shop for supplies. Monroe will be here if you need anything."

"Good plan," he mumbled. Especially the part where he was responsible for nothing but sleeping.

Except Monroe and Rosalee didn't actually leave the room right away and they kept _talking_ in a non-whispering whisper that made it impossible for him to actually _do_ that.

"Did Hank say how long he was going to be?" Monroe asked.

"Not long I hope."

"Yeah, me too," Monroe said fervently. "What are we going to tell Juliette when she gets here? She doesn't even _know_ Nick anymore and we have to convince her to drink a zaubertrank with the guy."

Their voices faded as they _finally_ left, headed downstairs.

"I don't know," Rosalee said. "We'll think of something."

"Yeah, okay, yeah, we'll think of something. Because that's what we do. We think of things. We are the thinkers of things."

"Try to get him to eat something. And, Monroe, _call_ me if he gets worse. I'll be as quick as I can but with the rain and the traffic at this hour it may take awhile."

"Drive safe," Monroe exhorted. "It's not going to help if you get into an accident."

"I'll be careful."

Nick heard the front door open and close. He shifted restlessly trying to find a cooler spot on the sheets or, failing that, get rid of the blankets they had pulled back to the end of the bed. When he stretched out completely they kept touching his toes.

The sound of kitchen drawers and cabinets being rummaged through kept him on the edge of sleep, jerking him back every time he almost slipped over. Hot and hurting and restive he tried to burrow his entire body under the pillow.

Juliette was not a _quiet_ early morning riser. It had taken him months to learn to sleep through the muted sound of the blow dryer, the clatter of makeup cases, and creak of the floorboards as she tried to sneak around in bare feet. Monroe's noises were just different enough he couldn't tune them out and his booted feet were twice as loud, thumping back up the stairs and over to the bed.

Nick groaned when the thermometer intruded on his ear once more.

"I know, I know, but it will just…take…a…second. There we go. All done." The thermometer went away and Monroe redeemed himself by replacing the warmed compress with a fresh, cold one.

A phone went off, shrill and _drilling_ into his brain with every ring. Nick wrapped his arms around his head and curled into a miserable ball.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." Each word grew progressively softer as Monroe moved away from the bed, taking the dreadful ringing with him. "Hey, Hank. Tell me you have good news…."

() () ()

He knew he was losing time. Moments, minutes, possibly whole hours. When Monroe shook him awake with a mug of soup in his hand and said, "Let's try this again," he couldn't remember the first attempt. He wasn't sure when Rosalee came back either, but when strong, remorseless hands pulled him out of his lovely, dark pillow cocoon, she was sitting on the bed.

"There he is," Monroe announced cheerfully and promptly stuffed one of the pillows behind his shoulders.

"You need to drink this," Rosalee informed him, holding a tea cup to his lips.

It wasn't the kiwi-snot drink, thank God. This one was bitter beneath a heavy flavoring of honey and apple, sticky sweet on his tongue. When the cup was removed he sagged into the pillow, sweating and shaky and weak, just _breathing_ for awhile.

"Hopefully it will help with the fever," Rosalee said, smoothing the hair back from his forehead and leaving her hand there. It was comforting. Grounding. Also her fingers were ice cold and that felt really good.

Eventually he asked, "How bad is it?" Twin silences lasted long enough he could assume the answer. "That bad huh?"

"Not that bad," Rosalee reassured him. "But…Hank is still looking for Juliette. She's not at home, not at work, and she's not answering her phone. We need her to take the antidote at the same time."

No, of course she wasn't at home, he should have remembered that before. "Christmas. They moved Christmas to Everett's this year. She wouldn't be back yet." Everett's wife Regina was due this week with their first, and under strict orders not to be more than an hour from her midwife. "There's no cell service on the farm."

"Who's Everett?" Monroe asked from the other side of the bed.

"Juliette's little brother."

"Do you have his number?"

He'd always gotten it out of Juliette's address book when he needed it. "Hank can look it up."

Regina was one of those freakishly nice people who remembered everyone's birthday and anniversary and made chicken noodle soup for sick neighbors. Everett was... He _liked_ Everett but the younger man had always been nervous around him and he'd never been able to figure out why. They lived far enough away it was rarely an issue, but he'd always wondered.

Juliette blamed it on him being a cop. Everett had a record for several juvenile acts of vandalism and shoplifting back when the family had lived in the city. The way Juliette got quiet and tried to avoid the subject, Nick figured there had been a lot more to it but nothing that ever made the arrest record.

"We'll find her," Rosalee said. "Try to rest."

The next time he woke up there was an IV in his arm and Rosalee was wiping his chest and stomach down with an icy cold cloth. "He's burning up," she said to someone hovering just out of sight. "If it gets worse we're going to have to take him to the hospital."

The time after that he was in the bathroom.

In the _shower_ in the bathroom.

With Hank and Monroe.

Monroe was kneeling, trying to work Nick's pajama pants off one leg. Which was weird.

"This is weird," he told them earnestly.

"You have no idea," Monroe muttered. "Lift your foot."

They held him up in cold water until he was shaking from it, dried him off, and bundled him into sleep pants and a freshly made bed. Rosalee came at him with the thermometer again, pronouncing his fever, "Still high but better." She hung a new IV bag on the headboard.

The background check they'd run on Rosalee back when her brother was murdered showed a long expired phlebotomist certificate and almost two semesters of nursing school. She might be a little rusty but she put the IV needle back in like a pro.

The _next_ time he woke up, he had an oxygen mask strapped on his face. Rosalee was entirely unwavering on the topic of removing it. He tried the pitiful look that always won Hank over, but Rosalee was made of sterner stuff and remained unmoved. She did lift the mask long enough for a drink of water though, which almost made up for it.

Tilting his head an inch, he saw Hank sitting in a chair borrowed from the kitchen table, scattering crumbs from half a sandwich, feet up on the bed. Monroe was pacing with one of Rosalee's books in his hands, saying, "We are all thinking the same thing here, right? It _had_ to have been Adalind."

"She _is_ the only one we know with the means," Hank added. "And she certainly has the motive."

"Revenge can be a powerful thing," Monroe said.

"I don't know," Rosalee said. "What would be the point of it?"

"There is that," Monroe agreed. "Why use a love spell on two people who are already in love?"

Hank corrected, "_Were_ in love. Juliette doesn't even remember him."

Nick winced, not appreciating the reminder.

"Assuming the other person _is_ Juliette," Monroe pointed out. "We don't know for sure yet."

Hank snorted. "As the guy riding in the car with him, trust me, it's Juliette."

Nick frowned. He didn't think he'd been _that_ bad.

"There was moping and _pining_," Hank continued. "And all of his case notes have little Juliette doodles on them. He hasn't done _that_ since they were first dating."

There had been _two_ incidences of doodles. Two!

He'd erased the others thoroughly before adding his notes to the permanent case files.

"What if this _wasn't_ done recently?" Rosalee interjected abruptly, sitting bolt upright. "I mean, I _assumed_ the zaubertrank was presenting oddly because Nick's a Grimm, but that might not be the only reason." There was the thumping sound of a book being abruptly shut. "Maybe it's acting like this because it's been around a long time."

"Nick and Juliette started dating about three years ago," Hank put in. "Right before he made detective."

Monroe asked, "You think it's that old?"

Rosalee nodded. "It could be."

"Someone wanted Juliette and Nick to get together," Hank said skeptically, "badly enough to dose them with a wesen potion. Why?"

Rosalee shrugged. "I don't know."

"We're assuming," Monroe said hesitantly, "that Juliette is innocent in this."

"Assumptions like that usually come back to bite me in the ass," Hank muttered. "But she doesn't know anything about wesen or Grimms. Nick said she didn't even believe him when he told her about it."

"Wesen aren't the only ones who can mix up a zaubertrank," Rosalee told them. "It's just like baking. All you need is a recipe and the right ingredients."

Juliette wouldn't, Nick thought, squeezing his eyes shut against the very idea. She wouldn't. There was _no_ reason she would and that was assuming she even _could_. Except…except he kept remembering the way Juliette's mother had _looked_ at him the first time they'd met. How her dad had been almost…guilty. The whispered conversations that had just stopped when he'd walked into a room. He had written it off as initial parental disapproval. Of him. Of his job. Of his lack of family ties.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd scared someone off because he failed to fake his way through the mystery that was a normal suburban family. His usual experiences with _normal_ suburban families tended to show up on the news.

"Well," Hank said slowly, "we'll just have to ask her when she gets here."

He was pretty sure it wasn't too long after that he opened his eyes to see Juliette leaning over him with a stricken expression. She managed a smile when she saw he was awake, eyes wet and bright. "Oh, hon, I'm so sorry. I thought I'd ended it. This wasn't supposed to happen."

He could scarcely wrap his mind around her words. That—_that_ wasn't confusion about why she had been asked to drive four hours for a man she didn't even _know_ anymore.

That was the tone of someone who _knew_ what was going on and _knew_ why.

TBC

_Author's Note:_ I know! I can't believe I ended it there either. Such a bad, bad squirrel. Hee, hee.


	13. Chapter 13

**WARNINGS: Implied non-con…sort of…in a way. Evil Juliette…except she's sort of not. Angry Hank…he definitely is. Lots of hurt/comfort and lots more Nickwhump.**

_I thought I'd ended it_, she'd said. Like she knew exactly what was wrong with him and knew what had caused it.

Nick caught at her hand when she made as to move away from the bed, wanting an explanation, and not wanting her to go. She tangled their fingers together, looking up at Rosalee as she asked, "You said you know how to fix this?"

"I have an antidote," Rosalee said, "but you both have to take it."

"But I _gave_ him the antidote already." She squeezed his fingers. "The one _they_ gave me."

"When?" Rosalee asked.

"Years ago," Juliette said softly, voice catching suddenly. "It was…I thought it had worked."

"Obviously it didn't," Monroe said. "Are you sure you gave him the right stuff?"

"Yes, I'm _sure_ I gave him the right stuff," Juliette shot back tartly. "I gave him what _they_ gave me."

"He's a Grimm," Rosalee said. "It's affected the original zaubertrank. It's bound to have affected the antidote as well."

"Zauber—what—now?" Juliette asked.

Hank's voice came from somewhere out of Nick's line of sight, flat and angry, continuing a conversation he must have missed the start of. "Exactly when _did_ you get your memories back?"

Juliette's fingers squeezed his convulsively, but she didn't look down. "A few days after I got out of the hospital."

"Wait, wait, wait," Monroe burst out. "You remembered him _before_ he moved out?"

"As much as I want answers," Rosalee interrupted, "to _a lot_ of questions, right now, we need to focus on helping Nick _first_."

There was more discussion he mostly tuned out. Juliette's hand was cool against his skin and she was holding on tight enough his fingers were a little numb. He was pretty sure it was the best thing he'd ever felt, and he was very unhappy when she suddenly pulled free. "I'm not going far," she promised and inexplicably started taking off her blouse.

It was right about then he realized he probably should have been paying attention to more than how good Juliette smelled.

"If this works," Rosalee said, "we should see some improvement within a couple hours."

"And if it doesn't." Juliette tossed her shirt over the end of the bed and reached back for the zipper on her skirt.

Nick was fairly sure last time he'd had this dream it _hadn't_ included Hank and Monroe at the foot of the bed staring desperately at the far wall.

"Coffee?" Monroe yelped, the back of his neck so red it looked painful.

"Coffee!" Hank agreed gratefully.

There was a brief scuffle at the doorway when they both tried to stampede through at once.

"If he doesn't improve, we'll go ahead with the antidote anyway," Rosalee said to Juliette. "I'd just feel better if he was stronger when we did it."

Rosalee left, shutting the door quietly behind her, and Juliette lifted the sheet and climbed in next to him clad in nothing but her underwear and acres of bare skin.

Nick drew back a little. He had no idea how long it had been since the enforced cold shower. He was sweaty and sticky and must stink of sickness, but Juliette moved closer, sliding an arm around him.

He sighed and let his head fall back, sneaking one hand up to lift the oxygen mask. "Did the baby come?"

Juliette shook her head. "Still refusing to pop. I think she wants her birthday to be as far from Christmas as possible." She pressed closer still, tucking her face against his collarbone.

"Can't blame her for that." He rested a bit, happily thinking about nothing more complicated than how soft Juliette's skin was and how she really did smell so good. He hadn't realized how much he'd _missed_ that.

Something hot and wet landed on his skin. And again. He ran a hand down her arm reassuringly. "We'll fix this. Don't cry. I'm sorry."

For some reason that just made her cry harder.

() () ()

He woke up alone in bed, lying on his side facing the bathroom door, and on the verge of being chilled with only the sheet for covering. The blankets were at the end of the bed, but reaching for them meant moving and at the moment nothing hurt at all. He wasn't cold enough to ruin that.

The mirror over the dresser showed that there was still light coming in the windows behind him, dim and gray with heavy clouds. Rain was still pounding down on the roof, but it was a cozy noise, insulating.

He wanted a shower, sooner rather than later, but it sounded like someone was already in the bathroom and he wasn't at all convinced he would be able to stand up on his own. The IV was still in, but the oxygen mask was on the corner post of the headboard rather than on his face, which had to be a good sign.

The bathroom door opened and Juliette stepped out. She was dressed in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of running shorts he'd had since college and really didn't wear anymore because the right leg hem had completely given out. When she saw him watching her, she got a look that was happy, sad, and anxious all at once. She padded over to the bed, silent on bare feet, and climbed back in.

"Hey," she said softly, sliding right up against him.

"Hey," Nick whispered back.

She smoothed his hair, fingers trailing down the side of his face and settling on his jaw, scraping lightly over the stubble. "I think I owe you an explanation."

"I think," he murmured, "I owe you one too."

"Yeah, what's with the whole Grimm thing?" she asked with a smile. "That's just bizarre."

"You should talk," he shot back but couldn't help smiling too. He was too relieved and elated to be close to her again to even think about being anything but happy. "You're _not_ wesen." They'd been through enough emotional situations he was pretty damn sure she would have woged at some point.

Juliette shook her head. "No. I'm still not even sure what a wesen is, but Rosalee promised to show me after all this is done."

God, that would be…interesting.

"I'm not anything really," she continued. "My grandma is _bruja_, I guess you'd say."

Nick may have goggled a little. "That sweet, little old lady is a _witch_?"

"Gran's always been good with herbs. She tried to teach me when I was little but unless it had to do with animals or boys I wasn't interested."

He'd only met Gran a few times. The first time had been early on in his relationship with Juliette. Gran had flown in to visit and Juliette had insisted he come with her when she drove down. The woman was tiny and dyed her hair bright colors and had smelled like peppermints. She'd been nice to him and he'd really liked her. "So is she the one who….?"

"Absolutely not. She wouldn't have," Juliette said seriously. "She doesn't do that kind of thing." She stroked her fingers along his jaw a few times. "In fact she was pretty upset when she found out what I did."

Nick winced. If Gran knew, everyone knew, which explained a lot about Juliette's parent's behavior. "Why did you do it then?" he asked.

"Remember how I told you that Everett and I were a handful when we were kids?"

He remembered some of the stories her mom had told him. Juliette had been the red-headed hellion of the neighborhood from the time she was old enough to ride a bike.

"In high school Everett got into a bad crowd. It was just kid's stuff at first. Graffiti, shoplifting candy bars, smoking in the school bathroom. Stupid things."

"And then it wasn't," Nick filled in. 

She smiled sadly. "And then it wasn't. I don't know exactly what happened, but it was bad. Mom and Dad were gone all night and the next day. When they came home they were really scared. They packed Everett and me onto the first flight to Spain to live with Gran for the summer."

"You never found out why?"

"Not the specifics. His friends did something to piss off a real high up in the city. Everett didn't come back to the States until after his twentieth birthday. And he doesn't come _into_ the city. At all."

Nick thought that over for a moment. "Is that why your mom and dad moved out of Portland?"

"Yep. They were pretty unhappy about me staying here for school actually, but nothing ever came of it."

"Until…?"

"Until…." She sighed and started stroking his cheek again and Nick let his eyes drift closed to better enjoy it. "Until this cute cop brought in a puppy he'd found at a crime scene. All the way across town."

Nick opened his eyes and grinned at her, unrepentant. "Well it seemed kind of stalkery to just get your phone number off the accident report from the hit and run."

"As opposed to getting my work address from the accident report and using an innocent animal as a prop," she said. "That's not stalkery at _allll_."

"When opportunity drops an adorable puppy in your lap," Nick told her solemnly, "you have to run with it."

"Ohhhhh, it's a good thing I love you."

His heart skipped and he knew he had a ridiculously sappy expression, but he hadn't expected to _ever_ hear that again. But there was a point to this conversation and it _wasn't_ Juliette's sudden and miraculous recovery of her memory. _That_ he was saving that for another day. "Why are we blaming the puppy for a love spell?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not blaming the puppy. The day after you oh so subtly left me your number as puppy contact info, I had a visitor from a very serious woman in a gray power suit. She said my family owed her boss a favor and it was time to pay up."

"Let me guess…lawyer."

She nodded. "Definitely a lawyer. There were terms and an actual paper contract. Three months of dating one Nicholas Reed Burkhardt and the debt would be paid."

"And if you didn't do it?"

"They would collect something much worse from Everett. He's my baby brother, Nick. I couldn't—couldn't…."

Of course she couldn't. "I know." He kissed her gently. "I know." And hugged her close. "Wait. Three months?"

"Three months was the original contract. They would give me the antidote for the potion thingy," she made a gesture with her fingers, indicating something the size of an eye drop bottle, "and we'd go our separate ways. Only…I didn't want to go."

Obviously the antidote hadn't worked and he'd get to that later but right now he was focused on the _important_ part of that statement. "Didn't want to go," he repeated, not at all smug. Well…perhaps a little smug.

Juliette punched him very, very gently in the shoulder. "Don't give me that look. I went into it thinking you were a crooked cop or something." Her eyes softened as she looked at him. "But you weren't. You were smart and nice and goofy and I thought... I thought I should stick around to keep an eye on you. I still hadn't figured out why they wanted you under surveillance so to speak."

"And sexy," he reminded. "You forgot sexy." He would have really liked to know why they had him under surveillance as well. And for how long. Had they known he'd approached Juliette after the accident, or was it sheer coincidence? He had a type (Hank had assured him of this) that Juliette fit and surpassed in so many ways.

"Stupefyingly sexy," she agreed in herI'm-humoring-you-because-I-think-you're-cute voice. She brushed his bangs back from his eyes, letting her hand linger. "I gave you the antidote at dinner on our three month anniversary and…." She drew in a ragged, shaky breath. "And I thought it had worked. You still loved me and I was so happy." She tried to smile, but when she blinked a tear crept down her cheek. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know it wasn't real."

Nick wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her close. He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth then another and another until she kissed back.

That was nice. They could do that for awhile. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd brushed his teeth, but all he could taste in his own mouth was apples and honey from Rosalee's concoctions and Juliette was minty fresh. So kissing, he was definitely ready for more of that. Then he had a horrible thought. "Sex _wasn't_ part of the deal, was it?"

Juliette's eyes crinkled up at the corners in a way he had always thought utterly adorable. "Nope. In fact they were quite adamant that anything past kissing was _not_ included in the contract. I don't think they wanted me getting too attached."

Good, good. That eased his mind. "Wait a second—on our third date _you_—"

"I did mention the sexy part."

"Stupefyingly sexy," he reminded her.

"You're never going to forget that, are you?"

Nick admitted, "Well, no."

Juliette chuckled softly and rested her forehead against his. "I love you so much."

A sharp ache swelled in his chest. God, he _couldn't_ lose her again. The idea was crippling. He blurted out, "I don't want to take the antidote."

She pulled away, already shaking her head. "Nick—"

"I don't need it. Now that we know what made me sick, it'll be fine—"

"Nick, _no_. This thing—spell, potion, whatever it is—it's not healthy for you."

"But I'm feeling better already." Being away from _her_ wasn't healthy for him.

"Honey, no." Juliette looked right into his eyes. "I'm _not_ going to stop loving you when this is done." She laced their hands together and added regretfully, "Although you probably won't feel the same."

"Never," he swore and kissed her fingers. "Never."

() () ()

When Rosalee brought them the antidote in two of his old plastic Star Wars cups, he thought taking it would be the end of things. He thought it would just…stop. Like with Hank and Adalind.

Hank had woken up a little hungover and a lot confused and embarrassed about being naked in bed in front of people he didn't know. He'd taken the next day off sick and, physically at least, that was the end of it.

This…wasn't fast. It was slow and creeping, burning through his body vein by vein, and if someone ever asked him how it felt to have his blood replaced by acid, this was how he would describe it. The slow crawl of the Rosalee's potion, seeping through muscle and nerve and artery, burning out every trace of the zaubertrank.

He had a few moments of breathless shock to realize how foolish he'd been to compare the difference between a thing meant to last a couple weeks and one that had three _years_ to dig in and grow. The difference between a potion meant to serve a single purpose and one that spread to last, to bind, to endure. It wasn't the quick snap of a rubber band or a light switch flipping off. It was slow and _fuck_ it was painful.

He clawed at the worst of it, trying to dig it out with his fingernails, until his hands were forced down and pinned. Fire ran through his body like the sizzling, sparking fuse of a cartoon dynamite bundle only the dynamite was somewhere deep inside his head. When it hit, he lost his breath entirely and the world went blurry, floaty gray.

He blinked away the haze to find his head resting on a flannel-clad chest, a hand petting his shoulder clumsily, and Monroe murmuring, "You're okay. It's over. You're alright now."

His hands were twitching like he'd been electrocuted, so were the muscles in his thighs and stomach, but that was okay because the rest of his body had gone completely on strike. His skin was cold and clammy with drying sweat and it was entirely possible he was going into shock.

Hank's face loomed over him. "Nick? Buddy? How ya' doing?"

Peachy, just frickin' peachy. And tired, really tired.

"Monroe, lay him down flat."

"What's wrong?" Juliette said from a great distance.

"He's going into shock."

Yep, totally called that one. Good to know those EMT classes hadn't been forgotten.

His whole back was cold without Monroe behind him. Pillows were shoved under his legs and a blanket pulled over him. He was content, he found, to stare at the ceiling, blank-brained with exhaustion.

Hank said sharply, "Get that oxygen back on. Nick…."

He didn't hear whatever else Hank had to say as he sank into a creeping wave of darkness.

() () ()

He woke to a deep, bass throbbing in his forehead, right behind his eyes. His back was cold, but there was a body in front of him radiating warmth down the front. Blinking open blurry eyes, he focused on a jean-clad leg inches from his nose. Not Hank, definitely not Monroe. It was a distinctly feminine leg, one that smelled like flowers and herbs rather than Juliette's favorite body wash.

"Hey," Rosalee said softly. Her hand slid under the covers, resting gently on his back, hot through the t-shirt they must have put on him while he was sleeping. "How are you feeling?"

He started to shift away from her then froze when every muscle protested and the headache spiked through his brain from back to front, stabbing into his left eyeball like an icepick. A strangled gasp escaped between clenched teeth and he dug his fingers into the sheets until it eased off enough he could breathe again.

Rosalee rubbed his back gently. "Sore?" she asked.

He choked, trying not to laugh at the severe understatement. God, his ribs felt like he'd been _kicked_.

"Sorry," she said, voice warm and amused. "It should pass fairly quickly now that we've broken the zaubertrank. Your Grimm healing abilities will actually be able to focus on healing now."

He wrinkled his nose at her, relieved when _that_ didn't cause shooting pains in any part of his body.

"I have painkillers and muscle relaxers when you feel up to it."

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely, throat raw as if he'd been eating ground glass.

It wasn't pills but a lukewarm tea in a mug with a straw that didn't require much movement on his part. He was covered in cold sweat when he finished and lowered his head gratefully back to the bed.

"Are you sure it's gone?" he asked as Rosalee put the cup down with a soft chink on the headboard. It _had_ to be gone. He didn't think he could go through that again.

"It's gone," she promised, voice ever so gentle.

He squeezed his eyes closed, swamped in relief…. And regret. "Juliette?" he asked faintly. "Is she…?"

"She's fine. Hank took her home." She tucked the blanket around his shoulders, getting the spot that had been letting in a cold draft.

He let out a breath that seemed to drain the last of his strength.

"Go back to sleep," Rosalee whispered. One hand threaded through his hair, cupping the back of his head with careful fingers and pulling him close. "You'll feel better in the morning."

Nick let his forehead rest against her thigh, exhaustion tugging him back down. He thought he'd probably actually feel worse in the morning when he thought about what Juliette had done, right now he just felt numb and tired.

() () ()

It was actually the absence of pain that woke him the next time. There was lingering ache deep in his head and the threatening burn of overused muscles but otherwise his body was…quiet. He lay still for a long time just appreciating how damn _good_ that felt.

He was alone in bed and the house was silent except for the pattering of rain on the roof and the occasional soft _whisp_ of book pages being turned. A pickup made its way up the street, the low purr of the diesel engine rising and falling as it passed by.

Eventually he was forced to admit the need for the bathroom was rapidly becoming sooner rather than later and opened his eyes. Monroe was sitting in the chair by the bed, halfway through the novel Juliette had returned last week. He turned a page and glanced up, placing a bookmark when he saw that Nick was awake. "Hey," he said softly. "How are you feeling?"

Nick answered that by pushing back blankets and sitting up slowly. He was dressed in a pair of sweat pants and one of his old t-shirts, stretched out at the neck and soft from wear.

Monroe made a noise and leapt out of the chair, hands out and ready to catch. "Careful."

Nick rolled his eyes at the overreaction, but his arms were already shaking under the strain of pushing himself upright, muscles protesting. "I'm a little sore," he confessed.

Monroe gave him a disbelieving eyebrow lift, but didn't press it.

"Juliette?" he asked. As far as he could tell no one else was in the house.

"Hank took her home."

Rosalee had said the same, he recalled that now. He hoped Hank had stayed with her, but he'd been angry last Nick remembered. "She alright?"

"Oh yeah, physically she's fine. No problems there." Monroe hesitated. "She was a little freaked out by the blood and…stuff."

"Blood?" Nick scoffed. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, trying to wake up. "Juliette is _less_ squeamish than a lot of the guys I work with."

"You, um, got a little crazy for a few minutes," Monroe hedged. "It wasn't so much the blood as the, um…screaming."

Oh. He scrubbed a hand over his forehead, wincing at the sting of raw skin down the right side. The antidote…. He remembered _taking_ the antidote…everything after that was a big, messy blur. They had held him down, he remembered, and he remembered fighting them.

Struck by a sudden fear, he jerked his head up to look at Monroe's face. "Are you guys okay? Did I hurt anyone?"

"We're fine," Monroe said gently, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "We're all fine."

Nick let out a shaky breath in relief, hands clenching into fists as he thought about what _could_ have happened.

After a moment Monroe offered, "Rosalee said you can have aspirin if you want."

He wanted. He also wanted a hot shower and refused to be dissuaded, attempting to get to the bathroom by himself until Monroe reluctantly offered an arm. His skin was tight and prickly with dried sweat and his legs felt like that time he'd volunteered for the PPD's team in the Fight for Air Climb at the Big Pink building. One hundred and sixty floors later he'd felt like a limp noodle. The next day had been far worse.

Monroe turned on the water to warm up then took himself out of the bathroom, leaving the door halfway open. "In case you fall down and crack your head open and die."

"I promise not to fall down and die," Nick joked, but he was shaky enough he had to sit on the toilet lid to get undressed.

Gripping the sink, he studied the damage in the vanity mirror. Most of the scratches could be hidden by his hair if he combed it forward, but he'd managed a spectacular mark down his right temple and cheek and another on his jaw and throat. He remembered…sort of… trying to get to the pain and rip it out. The debilitating headache was gone now but his brain felt bruised and muzzy.

"Damn," he sighed, poking cautiously around the edges of the scratch on his jaw. The scrapes had been cleaned while he slept, coated with a shiny layer of antibacterial ointment. They were just starting to scab and he had no idea how long he'd been asleep, if it was the same day or the day after.

He needed to call Renard, call Hank, check on Juliette…. Except he probably wasn't supposed to do that anymore.

Leaning against the shower wall, he tried not to fall down under the deluge of hot water as stiff muscles began to unlock. He thought he should feel different after having a love spell removed. Angry, relieved, depressed…something.

Something besides numb.

TBC

_Author's Notes:_ Congrats to those of you who guessed the reason behind Juliette's actions last chapter. I tried not to make her too evil because I really do love her character when the writers stay true to what they started. But I watched most of the first season thinking she was just a bit _too_ accommodating even for the best girlfriend ever. I kept expecting her to come out with some sort of deep, dark secret. Especially after that scene at the gun range.


	14. Chapter 14

**WARNINGS: The usual mentions of violence, references to zaubertrank use, hardly any Renard or Wu in this chapter which is so sad. Second to last chapter!**

_Author's Notes:_ For everyone wondering about it, I loosely based Nick's illness on drug withdrawal symptoms figuring the zaubertrank formed a chemical attraction between two people that altered brain chemistry and formed a sort of pheromone-based addiction. Ie: Hank's obsessive need to be near Adalind. Three years of Nick getting his Juliette hit every day and then being relegated to sleeping on the couch…that's got to sting.

Nick woke to soft voices and the realization that it was dark outside the bedroom windows. He was warm and comfortable and the sound of the rain pounding down on the roof made him want to snuggle back into the blankets and go back to sleep. But the lamp on the bedside table was on, casting just enough light to show Hank and Rosalee in the hall outside the bedroom door. Hank had a tray of food in his hands and a half-frown on his face as he listened to whatever Rosalee was saying to him.

Nick pushed himself upright enough he had a better view, bracing himself for the inevitable pulse of headache…but there was nothing. Only sore muscles and bone deep exhaustion dragging at every movement. He watched Rosalee pat Hank's arm and say something that made him frown harder. "What's wrong?"

They both looked his way with vaguely guilty expressions then Rosalee plucked the tray from Hank's hands and carried it over. "We were just arguing over whether we should wake you up to eat."

Yeah, right. He wasn't buying that for a second but he wasn't feeling up to pushing it right now. If it was really important, he thought they would either tell him or look guiltier. He caught a whiff of food and his stomach growled hungrily.

"Guess we made the right choice," Hank joked.

The clock on the nightstand said 10:19pm. "How long have I been asleep?" He pushed upright, letting Hank stick a pillow behind him. His neck gave a warning twinge but his head stayed beautifully pain free.

"Most of the day," Rosalee answered. She gave him an amused look. "That's a _big_ smile."

"No headache," Nick told her, unable to keep from chuckling in giddy relief.

"That's good news," Hank said.

Rosalee put the tray on his lap. "Dig in. There's plenty more downstairs. I think Monroe spent the whole day cooking."

Nick tried a spoonful of soup. Mostly Monroe's cooking was delicious but sometimes he got a little experimental and the results were…less than optimum. "He didn't have to do that," he said. God, that was _good_. He took another bite and another. "He should have gone home instead of hanging around bored while I slept."

He felt guilty that he was taking them away from their regular lives. Monroe especially, who relied on his schedule and his special diet. And Rosalee, who must be closing the shop at least part of the time to take care of him. He made a mental note to reimburse her for the supplies at least even if he had to sneak the money into the register with a note when she wasn't looking.

"Sounds like your head is better," Rosalee said. She smoothed back his bangs then laid a hand on his forehead. "Temperature seems normal. How does the rest of you feel?"

"Tired, mostly. Sore muscles, but mostly it just feels like I ran a marathon." Every time he lifted his arm exhaustion dragged at him like he was pulling against one of those resistance bands at the gym.

"And hungry I see." She picked up the now empty bowl. "Feel up to another?"

"Yes," Nick said immediately.

She chuckled. "I'll be right back."

"Is Juliette alright?" Nick asked Hank. There was toast on the tray as well two slices with butter, and a glass of orange juice.

Hank sighed and nodded. "She's doing okay under the circumstances."

That was good to hear. He took big bites, trying to keep the crumbs on the tray. About halfway through the first slice, he realized Hank was watching him with an odd look. "What?" he asked around a mouthful, tying not to spit crumbs.

Hank poked him in the shoulder. "_You_ scared the hell out of me."

He stared at the other man blankly for a moment then realized Hank must be talking about him trying to claw his own skin off. That would be a somewhat…off putting. "Sorry?" he offered.

Hank snorted out a sharp breath of air and scrubbed both hands over his face. "You have no idea how sick you really were, partner. We were about one second away from calling for an ambulance when Juliette finally got here."

Nick didn't know what to say to that so he finished off the toast with two more bites instead.

"Rosalee says your Grimm speed healing is back," Hank said after a minute of silence broken only by the crunch of Nick chewing. "Well, she says it never really left, it was just busy trying to keep you on your feet. Now that it doesn't have to work against the zaubertrank you should be up and about in no time."

He did feel remarkably well considering yesterday he'd barely been able to move from the strained muscles and soreness. "So I can go back to work tomorrow?" he suggested just to see Hank's look of exasperation. Tomorrow might be optimistic but the day after he figured he would be well enough for a half day at least.

"Not a chance, partner. You're taking the rest of the week off."

"That's forever," Nick whined. He started on the second piece of toast, washing it all down with a long drink of orange juice.

"Too bad. Renard says if he sees your pasty little face before Monday he'll have you handcuffed and taken home in a squad car."

Nick spit crumbs all over the tray trying not to choke on a laugh. "He didn't really say that," he accused.

"Almost word for word," Hank vowed, but he was grinning slyly.

Nick dusted toast crumbs off his hands and settled back in the pillows with a heavy sigh. "So what's been happening at work? Davie actually staying home after his knee surgery?"

"Hell no. He's as bad as you. Captain's going to have to order him out."

"Good luck with that," Nick said, closing his eyes to listen better.

"Jim and his wife finally decided on a name for the future heir."

"Mmmmm…?"

"Travis if it's a boy. Petunia if it's a girl. Apparently it's a family name from way back."

Nick fell asleep listening to him talk long before Rosalee returned with the second bowl of soup.

() () ()

The next day Rosalee went back to work at the shop. As soon as he was able to guilt Monroe into letting him have his phone Nick texted Juliette, not quite able to face talking to her directly, but needing to know she really was alright.

He didn't doubt Hank's promise that she was okay, but seeing the reply text let something unclench deep in his gut.

Whatever Hank and Juliette had talked about the night he'd driven her home had taken the edge off Hank's anger, dropping it from full boiling to a low simmer. He wouldn't elaborate and Nick was too tired and relieved to harass him about it much.

His designated babysitter for the day, Monroe was being over-cheerful about everything and working hard to avoid mentioning Juliette's name or referring to her in any way, shooting furtive glances Nick's direction every time he did. Nick wasn't sure what he was expecting, tears and wailing maybe.

He thought it was funny that everyone else was more upset than he was. He wasn't _not_ upset, he just wasn't…he wasn't sure _how_ he felt yet. He had three years of memories playing on a loop in his head, some good and some bad and some that he was seeing in a whole new way.

With Rosalee gone Monroe was easily coerced into helping him downstairs. After days of being stuck in bed, lying on the couch felt like a vacation. Monroe pulled the kitchen table into the living room near the couch and brought out a project, tools laid out in a precise pattern around him, goofy magnifying glasses perched on his nose. He'd given Nick a narrow eyed look when he suggested he might be able to survive a few hours by himself if Monroe wanted to go home.

"You know," Monroe said, squinting at the soap opera on TV through his magnifying glasses, "I watched this show once, like, five years ago. I think they were on the same story line."

Nick kind of liked the daytime soaps, they were a soothing background noise to his brain churning out questions like, _why_ Juliette hadn't told him right away when she'd gotten her memories back. And, who was woman that had brokered the deal and how was he going to track her down. And, what had Everett done and to whom to warrant such a strong reaction.

Possibly he also wanted to punch Everett in the face and ask him if he really _appreciated_ what his sister had done for him.

Instead of repeatedly picturing that in his head, he reached for the remote and found a documentary on how they made pinball machines and listened to Monroe talk about how he'd taken one apart once just to see how it worked. He'd been nine and his dad had been rather upset.

"He was so unbelievably pissed. He cooled off once I put it back together again," he said ruefully. "After that I had to buy anything I wanted to deconstruct with my allowance money. I discovered the wonder that was thrift stores. Mom was scandalized of course but she eventually decided she preferred me scouring any yard sale I could reach with my bike over me deconstructing her blender."

Nick smiled into his pillow and pictured a tiny, earnest Monroe taking apart all his remote control toys.

() () ()

On the third day, he felt so much better he sent his nursemaid home after breakfast. Monroe went, reluctantly, with promises to be back that evening and nebulous threats of what would happen if the lunch he'd left in the refrigerator wasn't gone when he returned. Nick spent most of the morning sleeping on the couch, enjoying the quiet after two days of biting his tongue to keep from complaining about excessive mothering because he _did_ appreciate having friends who cared that much.

By the fourth day, he was tired of sleeping. He talked Monroe into taking him grocery shopping, spent a couple hours at the Spice Shop, went by the precinct to retrieve up his _finally_ finished Toyota, swung by the trailer to pick up an armful of books to read, and spent a long time sitting at the kitchen table staring at his phone wondering if he should call Juliette.

Everyone assumed he wouldn't love Juliette once he'd taken the antidote. And there were moments in the last four days he wished he'd never met her, that they'd never taken the hit and run call and he'd never seen that brave, beautiful woman keeping a steady grip on the victim's hand while the paramedics crawled around them, but there were more moments when he _missed_ her fiercely. It had been easier when he could tell himself that staying away was for Juliette's own good, when he thought she _wasn't_ missing him too, when he'd thought she didn't want him.

On the evening of the fifth day he was watching Hank sort through DVDs when he decided the feelings weren't going away on their own and he needed to do something about it _before_ he called Juliette for a sit down.

"The Notebook?" Hank asked, eyeing the picture on the cover dubiously.

Nick shrugged and ate a handful of popcorn. "Must have been Juliette's."

"Uh huh. And Gone With the Wind and Titanic."

"I was in a hurry when I moved out."

Hank snorfled a laugh into his beer and slapped a DVD into the player. They ended up watching The Princess Bride.

() () ()

Rosalee had just turned the sign to OPEN when Nick parked his fully restored Toyota in front of the Spice Shop early the next morning. She waved at him through the window and held the door for him, bracing against the gusty weather.

He ducked inside, shoving his hood back as Rosalee closed the door firmly against a sharp blast. The rain had finally let up but the wind had moved in with a vengeance, making a mockery of his morning hair combing efforts.

"Good morning," Rosalee said, a little breathless from wrestling with the door.

Nick ran a hand though his hair, attempting some sort of order. "Morning."

"What brings you by on this very windy day?" Her hair was pulled back in a sensible braid, windblown strands trailing around her face.

"I…." He shuffled his feet a little as he followed her to the counter. "I need another dose of the antidote. For the love spell."

She looked at him in surprise. "Are you sick again?" Reaching across the counter she clapped a hand on his forehead. "You don't feel feverish." 

"I'm—" He stepped back out of reach. "I'm fine," he said, then corrected, "I'm not _sick_." Physically he felt great. The scratches on his face had scabbed over and peeled so they were much less noticeable and the soreness in his muscles was gone entirely.

Rosalee paused, both hands on the counter, waiting for an explanation.

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "I just don't think it got it all the first time."

"Okay." Rosalee came around the counter, heading for the shelves. "Why do you think that?" She chose a jar from the shelf in the same shade of tree-frog-green he remembered the antidote being.

He took a deep breath and let it out, dug his fists deeper into his pockets. "Because I'm still in love with Juliette."

Today was the _sixth_ day since he'd taken the antidote, long enough for any residual feelings of love and adoration to fade if it was going to happen.

He'd already gone to Rosalee's friend, Marica Phipps, hoping it was something she could take care of and he wouldn't need to bother Rosalee. But she had just patted his hand and told him it wasn't magical help that he needed but some serious soul searching. Then she'd given him a flat gray river-rock about the size of a fifty-cent piece and told him he needed to think about what he saw when he thought about his future.

"Oh. I see." Rosalee put the jar back down slowly. "Nick—"

He interrupted. "I—I shouldn't, right? _If_ the antidote worked I shouldn't—" he desperately caught the rest of the words before they escaped.

Rosalee grabbed his flailing hand, squeezing it warmly, and he forced himself to stop and take a deep breath. "Nick," she said gently, "it's entirely possible that the reason the zaubertrank worked _so_ strongly in the first place is because it had something to work _with_." Rosalee patted his hand. "From what I hear, _you_ made the first move." Her lips quirked. "I understand there was a puppy involved."

When had they even had time to talk about _that_?

"You must have been attracted to her to go through all that effort…. Oh my God, I _just_ had a thought," she said suddenly. "I _assumed_ the antidote didn't work the first time because even before you were a Grimm you were sort of _still_ a Grimm." She smiled at the face he made. "But I think that was only part of it. I think you were _already_ in love with her and that's why the antidote didn't work. Juliette didn't mention taking it the first time. It must not have been strong enough to break the zaubertrank one-sided."

So someone had threatened and coerced Juliette into drugging him, endangering his life, endangering _her_ life...all to accomplish something that probably would have happened anyway. Nick collapsed against the counter, dragging both hands over his face. "When I find out who did this I'm going to kick their ass."

"I have a recipe for a really horrible itching potion," Rosalee volunteered cheerfully. "Lasts for days."

He smiled tiredly. "I may just take you up on that." A spate of dead leaves rattled against the door then swirled away down the street.

"There was at least one good thing that came out this," Rosalee said.

"What's that?"

"Juliette's memory of you. I think the love…spell," she grimaced at the word, "counteracted Adalind's poison. Without it Juliette may never have gotten her memory back."

Jesus. That didn't bear thinking about.

"Nick, she still loves you. You still love her. Do you think you can move past what happened?"

"I don't know." He pulled his hood back up, prepared to brave the wind. He was due at work in half an hour.

She tilted her head a fraction, studying him, then asked with devastating precision, "Do you want to?"

Thinking about spending five, ten, twenty years without her was painful, but this was about so much more than his loneliness. He paused, hand on the door handle. "I don't know."

() () ()

Sitting in his Toyota, he stared at his phone for four full minutes, listening to the garbage cans at the neighboring store thump, thump, thump as the wind blew them together, before he hit number one on his speed dial.

Juliette answered after three rings. "Hi." 

"Hey," he replied and the rest of the words dried up in his throat. He had the river rock in his hand, flipping it over and over and over.

After a moment she chuckled. "Listening to you breathe heavy into the phone is _definitely_ something I missed, but sooner or later you're going to have to tell me why you called. I have to be at work in twenty minutes."

Nick cleared his throat. "I need to talk to you."

"Okay. Sure. What about?"

"I need to ask you some questions."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed.

"Can you meet for lunch today?"

"Um…yes, I can do that."

He named a place and a time and ended the call, stomach flipping unpleasantly between anticipation and dread_. First date jitters_, he thought then snorted at his own foolishness and started the engine.

He was late enough getting to the precinct that Hank was already at his desk, sorting through files. Before heading that way, Nick detoured to the Captain's office, almost bumping into Franco coming out.

"Hey, Sarge, good Christmas?"

"Wife's sister got the kids a drum set, but otherwise it was real good."

"If you're looking for revenge," Wu suggested in passing, "I saw a yodeling pickle on the internet. Long life batteries and a little super glue on the ON switch…."

Nick gave him an impressed look. "That is truly evil."

Wu said proudly, "It is, isn't it?"

"Show me this pickle," Franco demanded and all but dragged Wu away.

"Nick," Renard called. "Come in." He waved Nick towards a chair. "Did I just hear something about a yodeling pickle?"

Nick shut the door behind him. "Absolutely not."

"Good," Renard said decisively, sounding a little bit relieved to Nick's ears. "What can I do for you?"

"I have a meeting with Juliette today. I'll use my lunch hour for it, but it may run long."

"No problem." Renard leaned back in his chair. "How is Juliette doing?"

"Better. She was able to visit her family over the holiday. That seemed to help."

"Any progress with the amnesia?" Renard asked.

"Some," Nick hedged. They weren't prepared to let the world know that Juliette had regained her memories entirely.

Renard looked like he was ready to press the issue but his desk phone rang, effectively ending the conversation. Renard looked at the phone and sighed a little. "Let me know if you need anything," he said in dismissal.

"Thank you, sir."

Hank was less understanding. "You sure this is a good idea?" he said skeptically.

"I need to talk to her," Nick said firmly. "Someone set this up. I need to know who."

"That I agree with. You meeting with her alone…." Hank waggled a hand. "Not so much."

Nick stared at him. "I'm not in danger from her."

Hank raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously?" Nick stared at him. "This is Juliette. I've known her for years. _You've_ known her for years."

"Thought I did," Hank acknowledged. "But that isn't the only reason you shouldn't go alone."

"Rosalee's antidote worked," he insisted and started his computer. "I'll be fine."

Hank looked unconvinced.

"Oh look, paperwork," he said, desperate for a change of subject. "_I'm_ going to do some."

Hank leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping on the desk, but didn't say anything else.

Deep down, Nick wasn't sure he was convinced either, but he wasn't going to let that stop him. He focused hard, blocking out every thought that wasn't work related. It worked so well that when his watch alarm went off he startled and sent a pen flying straight into Wu's path.

Wu plucked it out of the air with a ninja-like move that Nick doubted he'd ever be able to repeat. Everyone in the immediate area clapped in appreciation, including the man handcuffed to Detective Wilson's desk.

Wu laid the pen on Nick's desk with exaggerated care. "Your pen, sir." He mock bowed, threw in a hand flourish, and took himself off.

Rubbing a hand over a suddenly flaming red face, Nick mumbled, "Thanks." He hurriedly tucked away the report he was working on. "I may be late," he said to Hank and grabbed his coat off the back of the chair.

Hank waved a magnanimous hand. "We're good here."

He ignored the worried look Hank added to that sentence and pulled his coat on. Hank was being great about not repeating how bad an idea he thought this was. He tried to find something reassuring to say, but he wasn't sure this _wasn't_ actually the worst idea he'd had since the night he'd tried to match tequila shots with Big Paul Simpson, the six-foot-eight, three-hundred-fifty-pounds-of-pure-muscle SWAT guy.

Giving up, he shoved his phone in his pocket and headed for the Captain's office. There was nothing he could say to Hank that he hadn't already and nothing Hank could say that Nick hadn't already spun around and around in his own brain a dozen times on the way to work.

The Captain's door was open. He tapped on it to get the man's attention. "I'm headed out, sir. I'll try not to be too long."

"I'm sure Hank can handle anything that comes up. Take the afternoon off if you need to."

Nick shrugged noncommittally and got out of there before Renard could be more sympathetic and understanding. It was starting to get creepy.

Pausing in the downstairs doorway, he tugged his hood up against a spattering of rain, eyeing the black thunderheads scudding overhead. The news said they were due a sunny day but it looked like they had been overly optimistic as to how much sun would actually appear. He zipped up his jacket and started walking.

It wasn't far. He'd chosen a café that was only a couple blocks away. Juliette would have to drive and find space in the limited downtown parking. It was, he could admit to himself, a petty bit of inconvenience. He didn't _blame_ her for what she'd done and couldn't fault her reasons for doing it, but he wasn't above feeling like she owed him…something.

The café had a covered, outdoor seating area, which was the other reason he'd picked it. Juliette was already there, bundled up in a heavy gray coat and black scarf. She was pale against the dark clothing, hair flattened from the hat that lay on the table, and staring into a cup of coffee with a sad, distracted gaze.

Nick's heart thumped hard in his chest, three years of memories swelling up behind his breastbone with an ache that knocked the breath out of him. It was completely unfair, he thought, that he still missed her this _much_.

She looked up as he reached the little wrought iron fence that sectioned off the seating area, one hand automatically coming up to comb through her hair, and she smiled tentatively and said, "Hi."

"Hi." It was pure reflex to kiss her cheek. "Thank you for coming."

"I'm glad you called," she said sincerely.

Nick sat, picking up the menu already on the table just to have something to do with his hands. They had the patio to themselves. Everyone else out for an early lunch was sitting inside the café like sane people did on a stormy January day.

He cleared his throat. "I had some questions."

Juliette took a deep breath and placed both hands on the table, visibly bracing herself. "Alright."

Okay then. He'd just…. Yeah, okay…. He'd never felt this nervous locked in an interview room with a murderer. "Did you give Adalind Schade amnesia?"

In the act of picking up her coffee, Juliette set it back down hard on the table. "I should have known you would figure it out."

"It was the lipstick." Jesus, she wasn't even ashamed of it. He swallowed hard and asked, "Why?"

Juliette looked down. "Once I got my memories back it wasn't hard to narrow down the cause of the coma. You and Monroe freaking out about the cat scratch finally made sense. There wasn't anything I could do about it without…giving away everything." She shrugged with a wry smile for how things had turned out. "So I focused on figuring out how to fix things with you."

_Which turned out so well_, he thought bitterly.

"And then, um, a couple days after you moved out, Adalind came to the house. She pretended to be concerned about me but it was pretty obvious she was there to gloat."

Adalind Schade had been in his _house_. Realizing he was making fists around the menu, he forced his hands to unclench and laid it down.

"She pretended she was still upset about how her _relationship_ with Hank ended. She asked a lot of questions about you. Someday you're going to have to tell me what you did to that woman because she really hates you. I don't think she felt that breaking us up was revenge enough."

"Of course she didn't," he ground out. "Where did you even find the stuff to…?" He waved a hand unwilling to say the words _brew a potion_ in public.

Juliette flipped her hair back over her shoulder. "I called Gran."

God. Sharp, spunky little old Gran who wore White Diamonds and mailed them crocheted blankets made of yarn that had probably been in her closet since the 70's. It didn't surprise him much that Gran knew about herbs and potion.

"She sent me the recipe and all the ingredients I couldn't get at the grocery store. I mixed it up, bought a bottle of wine, and convinced Adalind I really needed a friend to help me through the breakup." Wrapping her hands around her coffee cup, Juliette looked at him earnestly. "I wasn't going to let her hurt us anymore, but I…I couldn't bring myself to harm her physically. Although," she added, "it was _really_ hard not to sock her right in that smug little smile."

Nick chuckled, easing back in his chair so he wasn't hunched over the table like he'd been gut punched. "I know the feeling."

A waiter emerged from the café with a coffee pot. Pouring the coffee, he glanced back and forth between them and diplomatically declared, "I'll give you two a few more minutes to decide."

It was just as well. The knots in his stomach didn't leave much room for food. Warily, he tested the coffee, immediately reaching for the sugar.

"How is she?" Juliette asked. "Adalind, I mean."

"Actually she's less…angry and discontent than I've ever seen her." Which wasn't saying much considering the circumstances in which they'd met. "I think she has a chance to be happy if she doesn't go back to her old life." He reached for another sugar packet. "Is she? Going to go back to her old life?"

"Gran said the memory loss would be permanent."

"Damn, remind me never to piss you off," Nick said.

She smiled briefly but it didn't last and he could see the strain in her face and shoulders and hands where they gripped the cup. "I almost backed out," she admitted. "When I was in her condo, talking to her, I remembered how _horrible_ it was to wake up missing part of my _life_ and I almost couldn't do it."

Nick curled his hands into his lap to keep from reaching out. "What made you go through with it?"

Juliette snorted indelicately. "She opened her mouth."

_Yep_, Nick thought wryly, _that would do it._

"She really _does_ think everyone _not_ her is an idiot."

"Yeah, she really does."

Juliette watched him for a long moment over the rim of her cup. "Are you mad at me?"

"No," he said immediately. "Mad _isn't_ the word. Surprised maybe." Although he shouldn't be. He'd seen Juliette's ruthless streak before, usually when it involved abused animals. Or whose turn it was to take out the garbage. "I think that was a…_novel_ way to eliminate the threat without, you know, death."

"Not about that—well that too." She rolled her eyes at herself and probably a little bit at him too. "I meant for….everything, I guess."

Nick opened his mouth to tell her he wasn't angry, of course he wasn't, then closed it again because he realized he _was_. Which seemed hypocritical because he'd lied to her as well, if for significantly less time and entirely different reasons. But the anger was still there, six days strong and bubbling up inside him like acid. "After your memories came back _why_ didn't you tell me?"

"Because when I remembered, you I remembered the deal I'd made too." She bit her lip and looked at the table. "I wanted to tell you _so_ much, but I didn't think you would believe me. And I thought…I thought if I didn't remember the deal, they couldn't force me to keep it up."

Whoa, _what_? "I thought the deal was _over_ after three months."

Juliette nodded sharply. "When the three months was up the woman I'd originally met came back. She gave me the antidote and made it clear I was expected to move on."

"But you didn't."

"I didn't." Her eyes were shiny bright and wide open like she was afraid that if she blinked the tears would spill over. "I wouldn't. They offered another deal and I took it because it let me stay with you. I thought the antidote had worked and you still loved me without…without it. They said they would make sure I _couldn't_ stay if I didn't do what they wanted."

"What…." He took a drink of his over-sweetened coffee to clear his throat. And to stall because he wasn't at all sure he wanted to hear this. "What did they want?"

"They wanted to know if you brought anyone new to the house. Names and dates and if they were related to you."

"That's it?" he said, more harshly than he intended. Or maybe it was exactly as harsh as he wanted to be. She'd been _spying_ on him.

Juliette flinched then snapped back, "I wasn't going to let them send me away when I had no idea who they were or why they were watching you." She glared at him as if he'd suggested she might do that exact thing. "And I sure as hell wasn't going to let them _replace_ me with someone who didn't care about you. I love you, you idiot!"

"You _lied_ to me," Nick barked.

"And you lied to _me_!" she yelled then put a hand over her mouth as if the volume had surprised her.

Just like that the bubble of anger burst. He laughed raggedly. "I guess that makes us even."

"Not really," Juliette said miserably.

Nick swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. "So they gave you the antidote?"

She made a noise of disgust. "It was _supposed_ to be the antidote. _They_ seemed to think it was the antidote. I thought it had worked. All those years I thought it had worked." She took a deep, ragged breath. "It _must_ have worked at least a little because…because you _left_."

He couldn't stop himself from reaching out this time, wrapping a hand around her cold fingers. "No. No, I moved out because you were safer without me there."

She gave him the look reserved for times when he said something _really_ stupid. "I can take care of myself."

"I'm starting to realize just how well," he said wryly. He squeezed her fingers and reluctantly let go.

The waiter emerged again, giving them a wary look before approaching. "Ready to order?"

Nick glanced at his watch, startled to realize thirty minutes had passed. "Do you need to get back to work?"

She shook her head. "I took the afternoon off."

He picked up the menu again, smoothing out the crumpled places on the sides. Now that they'd gotten past the worst part of the conversation, he was starving. "Captain pretty much kicked me out for the rest of the day."

Once the waiter had departed with orders for soup and hot sandwiches, Nick pulled out his notebook and pen. "I need to know everything about these people. Descriptions. How you contacted them. Anything you can remember."

Juliette produced two business cards from her purse, sliding them across the table. "It was always a woman. For the first two years it was a brunette. Part Native American, maybe, or Latino. She had an Eastern accent though. A couple months after your Aunt passed away, she stopped answering the phone. The next day a redhead showed up with the card on top and told me to call that number instead. She only answered once before it started going to voicemail."

Both cards were the same expensive, cream-colored stock, completely blank except for a hand written phone number. The penmanship was different on each, but both were elegant and easy to read. Likely the numbers would lead nowhere, but he'd check them out.

"Those were the only two you ever met."

"Yes," Juliette confirmed. "But they worked for someone else."

"A man?"

She looked surprised but nodded. "They referred to their boss as him but never said a name. Do you know who it is?"

He had a working theory. "Apparently there's a Prince in town with an interest in the local Grimm." His phone buzzed, lighting up with a new text alert as he pulled it out of his pocket.

_Rescue?_

"Hank?" Juliette asked.

"Yeah," he confirmed.

"Do you need to go back?"

Nick glanced up at her, hearing regret in her voice. "No." He texted a negative to Hank, adding, _Call you later. _"No, I don't need to go."

She brightened. "Good." This time she reached for his hand, pulling it closer. "I want you to know—before we get into anything else—that I miss you. Miss you a lot. And if you feel the same…if you ever wanted to try again…I'd really like that."

His first impulse was yes. Hell yes. But, putting aside the spying and the potions, all the reasons he'd moved out were still valid. At best the late nights and constant interruptions were an annoyance, at worst he was going to get someone killed. "I'll have to think about it," he said. "I _do_ love you. That hasn't changed and apparently isn't going to." He wanted to be clear about that. "But neither have any of the reasons I left. People have broken into our _house_, you've been _kidnapped, _this guy I don't even know has been messing with our _lives_…and it's going to happen again or get _worse_ if I stay."

Juliette shook her head fiercely. "I get it. I do. And if we do continue this, there can be no more secrets." She licked her lips and added, "From either of us. We need to keep each other in the loop so we know what we're up against."

"No more secrets." That he wholeheartedly agreed with, as for the rest…. "I just need a little more time."

TBC

_Author's Notes: _

Several chapters ago Bookqueen604 asked about how the obsession spell would fit into this story but I couldn't tell her without giving away the surprise. But now I can say that in the LTLF world the obsession spell never took hold because it couldn't compete with a three-year strong love spell. Rather like Juliette's memory coming back, Adalind's potion didn't stand a chance against Nick's love. Awwwww….

One more chapter to go. Hopefully all your questions were answered in this chapter or will be in last one. Next up: THE HOUSEWARMING PARTY OF DOOM. Nah, I gave Nick a happy day of fun and friends and decisions. He deserves it.


	15. Chapter 15

**WARNINGS: Last chapter. You are warned. Party at Nick's house! Whoot!**

_Author's Notes:_ The housewarming approacheth. I love how excited people are about Wu throwing a party. I'm not writing an AU where Wu becomes an event coordinator and plans Monroe and Rosalee's wedding. I'm absolutely not. But feel free to imagine it.

A week passed, days full of distracted thoughts and sharp edges made worse by the watchful eyes of what seemed like the _entire_ department. Everyone in the building knew he'd been sick even if Hank was the only one who knew why.

"I told them you had Mono," Hank said helpfully.

The first day back had been the worst, most of the floor stopping by to see how he was, ask what had happened, and while the concern was deeply appreciated, it came at a time when he was trying not to obsessively dwell on the reason he'd been ill in the first place. Repeating his cover story eight times a day was not helping with that.

"Just be glad I didn't tell them you were in rehab," Hank said when Nick sighed and dropped his head onto his desk, seriously considering locking himself in a bathroom stall for an hour.

"Ha," Nick muttered to his desktop. It had been rehab of a type; detoxing Juliette out of his system.

In between visitors, he read through Hank's notes on their three active cases, caught up on his email, returned calls, and halfheartedly wished for a murder or two to get them out of the office.

By the third day the deluge had mostly dried up, thank God. Except for Wu. With the date of the housewarming party fast approaching, Wu had taken to stopping by his desk three times a day to ask if he had an outdoor power outlet and how many tables did he think they could fit into his house, would they need to rent a tent.

"That man missed his calling in life," Hank said after he'd been talked into agreeing to help with the setup, something he'd already promised Nick but was content to let Wu think a hardship.

"I'm buying him _The Wedding Planner_ next Christmas," Nick vowed.

"I think he's already got it."

Hank was signed up for the inaugural meeting of the kehrseite-schlich-kennen therapy group set to start the following weekend. Rosalee had a list at the store containing four names so far, mostly contributed by wesen who had accidentally outed themselves to friends and lovers, generally scaring the crap out of them. Nick really hoped it stayed that way but he had a feeling he would be adding more people to Well's trauma group in no time.

He was considering his arguments to convince Renard the group meetings should count towards the mandatory counseling sessions he had racked up after the fly-wesen case…and the _other_ fly-wesen case. Maybe he could even get in enough to save up credit for the next time. It was worth a try.

() () ()

The morning of the housewarming party, Hank and Wu arrived a little after nine o'clock. Hank in his car with a fresh box of donuts, Wu in a pickup full of folding tables and chairs borrowed from the precinct.

"Hey, I know this place," Wu said, looking around the yard. It was always a little startling to see him in civilian clothes instead of uniform, jeans and a warm-looking sweater being no exception. "Used to get a call a week minimum. Mostly domestics and suspicious vehicles. How'd you find it?"

"Friend of a friend." A cousin of a friend of Bud's, despairing over finding a tenant who wasn't scared off by the history of the house, had called Nick up within minutes of him contacting Bud to start spreading the word that he was changing addresses.

"They've really fixed it up nice," Wu said appreciatively. "You'd never know it was a crack den."

"They did ask for a hell of a security deposit," Nick said.

Hank cracked, deadpan, "Can't imagine why."

Monroe's yellow VW pulled up a few minutes later while they were unloading chairs. Under the impression Monroe would rather die than attend a social event with more than three people, Nick gave him two questioning eyebrows.

Monroe shifted…shiftily. "Rosalee said you shouldn't be doing heavy lifting yet."

Nick just nodded and didn't mention that it had been over two weeks now, he'd been back to work for more than half that, and he was hardly an invalid. "Thanks for coming. There are donuts in the kitchen."

Monroe grunted. "Of course there are."

They were good donuts too. Nick was happy to test out a few while he supervised the rest of the 'heavy lifting'. He'd spent yesterday afternoon cop-proofing his house, which was similar to childproofing in that he had to lock up anything with sharp edges and hide what he didn't want broken. In this case it also meant taking down the trip wires and removing all the stuff he couldn't pass off as Aunt Marie's passion for unique weaponry.

After some debate they pushed the couch, armchairs, and TV into the downstairs bedroom he'd turned into an intermittently used exercise room. When half the crowd inevitably drifted in to watch whatever game was on in the afternoon they wouldn't disturb anyone still eating and talking. And, with the folding tables set up in the living room, they were that much closer to the kitchen and the grill that would be set up in the carport once he'd moved his Toyota out. The clouds had blown away during the night giving them a rare day of clear blue sky, but Ripley was freakishly protective of his shiny, chrome baby and wouldn't want to take any chances.

Hank found him as he was setting out stacks of paper plates and napkins in the kitchen. He watched until Nick prompted him with a drawled, "Yeeeees?" In the living room he could hear Monroe and Wu rearranging the tables for the third time.

"You decided what you're going to do about Juliette?"

"What about Juliette?" Nick asked, faux casual.

Hank huffed. "You really think that's going to work?"

Nick sighed and started opening boxes of plastic forks and spoons, lining them up in precise rows. He needed to make a decision one way or the other. It wasn't fair to either of them to keep dragging it out.

"I'm not going to compare her to Adalind," Hank said. "I'm _not_," he said again quickly when Nick opened his mouth. "Adalind did what she did because it was a job and she was getting something out of it."

And because she was a spiteful bitch. Or had been. Time would tell if she choose to be a better person or slipped back into old patterns.

"Juliette told me what happened with her brother and I get she was doing it for good reasons and she did her best to…mitigate the damage."

Nick straightened the boxes of forks methodically.

"But I'm still pissed at her for the whole thing _and_ for not telling you she had gotten her memories back."

Yeah, he was still mad at her for that to. It was also a relief. He'd felt guilty about lying to her for so long about the Grimm thing, knowing she'd lied to him made them even in an odd sort of way.

"But I also know she's pretty devastated that the antidote didn't work the first time. You both got shafted in this."

He remembered her face when she'd realized that. Devastated was the word for it.

"I'm not helping am I?"

"You're helping," he said. Hearing all the arguments in his head said out loud did help. "I know I should be mad at her…I am mad at her. But what if she had told me about the potion? Before my Aunt died I would have thought she was crazy."

Hank harrumped but nodded agreement.

"And you and Monroe and Rosalee and Juliette…you are my family now. What _wouldn't_ I do if one of you were in trouble?" Damn near anything when it came down to it.

Hank made a disgruntled sound, but he looked pleased about being called family. "Did you at least have any luck figuring out who put Juliette up to it?"

"Actually yes. Remember Serena Dunbrook?"

Hank thought a moment. "Death by YMCA, right?"

Nick nodded. "I traced the phone numbers Juliette gave me. The second one was a dead end but the first was from a disposable cell phone paid for with a credit card from the law firm Serena Dunbrook, Camilla Gotleib, and Adalind Schade worked for."

"Sloppy of her not using cash," Hank commented. "So you think the woman who contacted Juliette was Serena Dunbrook?"

Nick nodded. "Who was also working for whoever Adalind worked for outside of the law firm," he confirmed. "Did I ever tell you they were both Hexenbeist? All three actually."

Hank leaned on the table. "I think I would have remembered that."

"And, according to my Aunt's books, Hexenbeist are associated with Royals such as…."

"Such as this mysterious Prince who keeps popping up," Hank finished.

"Bingo." He ripped open the last box of spoons.

"So this Prince sets up you and Juliette with the love spell." Hank had on his thinking face, brain churning. "Adalind and the other two women worked together. Adalind must have known he wanted you two together."

Nick realized what he was getting at. "Even if Adalind _wasn't_ in on the actual love potion job, they probably gossiped about it around the cauldron. She must have known."

Hank frowned thoughtfully. "We've been thinking that Adalind was _just_ trying to punish you when she attacked Juliette but maybe she was also…."

"Pissed at her boss?"

"It does sound like she had a falling out with him." Hank glanced over his shoulder at the sound of furniture scraping across hardwood flooring. "And she is the vengeful type."

"Amen to that." There was another long _scraaaaape_ from the other room. Nick raised his voice, "Do I even want to know what you two are up to in there?"

There was a long moment of furtive silence then Wu yelled, "Nothing."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, that was believable," he muttered to Hank.

Hank choked on a laugh. "Did you ever find out," he asked when he had recovered, "why this mystery Royal went through so much trouble to get you and Juliette together?"

"Maybe. " He'd been thinking about it, going through old boxes and Marie's journals from the time. "After I passed the detective's exam, while I was waiting for a slot to open up, I got a job offer from the FBI."

"I vaguely remember you mentioning that," Hank said dryly. "Once or twice."

Nick grinned. Early on in their partnership, he may have muttered something about wasting his talents doing newbie grunt work at the station when he could have been doing newbie grunt work for the FBI. Once or twice.

"They liked my test results," he said. "I was seriously considering it when I met Juliette."

With Aunt Marie traveling the country and his student loans paid off, there had been nothing to hold him in Portland. Seattle wasn't so far away he couldn't swing back through for a beer with friends now and again and, truthfully, there hadn't been that many people he'd have missed long term. "A week later Senior Detective Mott took early retirement and I politely told the FBI that I already had a job."

"You think," Hank said, "that Juliette was set up to keep you in the Portland."

Nick shrugged. "If someone knew I was in line to become a Grimm and they wanted to keep an eye on me I can't think of a better way than a new job and a new girlfriend."

"Wow," Hank said, "that's _incredibly_ disturbing."

Nick nodded his complete agreement. "I need to talk to my old Patrol partner."

"Marsdon?" Hank asked in surprise. "What's he got to do with it?"

"He was the only one I told about the job offer _before_ I turned it down. Even Aunt Marie didn't know until I called to tell her about making detective."

"You think he was passing on information?"

"Maybe." Nick straightened the napkins one more time then forced himself to step away before he crossed the line from tidy to OCD. "I hope not." He started gathering up the packaging for disposal. "But I think I need to assume everything I _thought_ I knew about the people in my life is complete shit." He looked up at Hank. "You'd tell me if you were spying on me for some creepy, underworld Royal, right?"

Hank patted him on the shoulder. "Absolutely, partner." He grabbed a bit of napkin wrapper Nick had missed, following him to the garbage can. "You know what I think? I think we need to have a chat with Rosalee and Monroe and maybe even that little twitchy fellow you know and see if they have any ideas about how to find this Royal. Or at least find out what they know about Royals in general. We're operating in an information vacuum here and it's just getting worse."

Nick wasn't sure he wanted to drag any of them any deeper into this, but he nodded to the suggestion anyway, lacking a better idea at this point. He needed to _make_ time to go through the trailer. He _needed_ his Mom to email him back. At least he'd gotten a reassuring notice that she had opened his E-card from Christmas.

"Your friend is weird," Wu announced, appearing in the doorway so suddenly they both jumped like guilty gossips caught out at the water cooler. "But in a good way."

"Takes weird to know weird," Hank said, grinning.

Wu clapped him on the shoulder in passing. "Which is why you and I get along so well."

It wasn't until well after people had begun to arrive, arms full off bowls of macaroni and Jell-O salad or in the case of Dan Peterson six bags of Cool-Ranch Doritos, and the burgers were on the grill that Nick found himself alone on the back porch, placed temporarily in charge of the BBQ. Monroe was somewhere in inside, avoiding the smell of cooking meat, but Rosalee and Hank were sitting on folding chairs, munching on carrots and cauliflower from the vegi trays Stacy Wynt had brought, when Hank asked if she knew how to find the local Prince.

"I suppose I could ask the Wesen Council," she said doubtfully. "I'm sure they know who it is, but I don't know if they would tell me."

"What's the Wesen Council?" Hank asked.

Rosalee nibbled a carrot stick. "The Council is the governing body for wesen. They enforce the rules and the old agreements."

"_Law and Order_ for wesen," Hank said.

Rosalee smiled at him. "Only without the lawyers. They are the final word and the executioners of the ruling."

"Locally?" Nick asked hopefully, picturing an overworked, understaffed government office in a city where it seemed like the wesen population outnumbered the kehrseite three to one. Maybe he could file a form, like the public information requests the PD got.

He just wanted one name. And then he wanted to go punch some answers out of the guy.

"They're based out of Europe," she said apologetically.

"And you _don't_ want to get involved with them," Monroe said, appearing at the back door with a three beers and a bottle of water. The latter went to Rosalee, the rest equally distributed. "This is good stuff. Your Captain has taste."

Renard had been by earlier to drop off drinks and ice. He'd hung out with some of the senior staff for an hour, telling a story that had reduced two of the Corporals to tears of laughter and had Sergeant Peterson rolling right off the couch. Nick had only caught half of it, something about a chicken tying up rush hour traffic trying to cross the road.

"Why don't I want the Wesen Council involved?" Nick asked. He took a pull on his beer and stared at the BBQ that he had strict instructions to watch but not touch.

Monroe shrugged and chose a place upwind to lean, hands shoved in his pocket, shoulders hunched. "Let's just say their problems have a tendency to disappear permanently."

"Permanently as in _permanently_?" Hank asked.

"Not always," Rosalee defended but not as vehemently as Nick would have liked. "On the topic of the Prince, I found out something about the zaubertrank Adalind used on Juliette."

Nick perked up at that.

"It's based on The Sleeping Beauty potion," she said. "Adalind altered it to include the amnesia, but the base potion is the same."

"Which means what?" Hank asked.

"Come on, that's a classic story," Monroe said. "Princess cursed to sleep until a '_Prince'_…," he did quote marks with his fingers, "…came along and kissed her."

"You're saying it took a Prince to wake Juliette up?" Nick asked. Mom had told him Katherine Schade's final words. The _he_ that could save Juliette must have been the Prince.

Rosalee nodded. "That's what I'm saying."

Monroe broke in with, "Assuming of course there's not another one running around—"

"One is plenty," Hank muttered.

"—it had to have been the same guy."

Damn. Now he'd have to thank the man before punching him in the face. Nick wasn't going to forget that Juliette wouldn't have been in a coma at all if not for him and his witches, but at least he'd tried to fix his mistake.

That was as far as they got before Ripley came back, handing Nick a plate to hold while he scooped food off the grill. The hamburgers were delicious, everything was delicious. He was in danger of over eating and had to force himself to stop at two servings of Vivian Downing's pineapple-upside-down cake. And one slice of Monroe's apple pie. With ice cream.

"Your body still has a lot of catching up to do," Rosalee told him as they sat at an otherwise empty table, lingering over dessert. "Zaubertranks take a lot out of you."

"It's been two weeks," he complained halfheartedly.

"Almost as long as you were ill," she pointed out.

Nick made a noise that was half protest, half resignation and thought about another helping of potato salad.

It was a good party. Nick spent a lot of time answering the door, giving directions to the kitchen where the food had filled the counters and was beginning to overflow, and making sure everyone had something to drink. Wu had set up a badminton net on the lawn and most of the kids had congregated around it to play a haphazard game that in no way resembled actual badminton, bundled up against the chill and wet in any place that touched the damp grass.

Monroe and Rosalee excused themselves after another hour, which was actually longer than he'd expected them to last, but Monroe had gotten into conversation with one of the civilian volunteers and every time Nick had walked by they were talking antiques.

Hank claimed a spot on the couch to watch football and ended up with someone's six month old drooling on his lap. Nick got a great video of him leading the baby through a touchdown celebration of necessarily small proportions. Wu was holding court in the kitchen with half a dozen devoted followers attempting to create a new Kool-Aid flavor. From the faces made as the taste testing began the chances of success were looking grim.

And Nick found himself wandering from room to room, drifting from conversation to conversation, turning Marica's rock over and over in his hand, and nursing the same beer long enough it got warm. He was on his tenth pass through the kitchen when he realized he was subconsciously looking for Juliette. The idea startled him so much he almost dropped the slice of pie Hank had sent him for. They tended to orbit at functions like this, never out of the other's sight for too long.

As far as epiphanies went, it wasn't Newton discovering gravity, but it clicked in his brain and he felt the rightness of it deep down in the pit of his stomach.

Dropping off Hank's dessert, he asked to borrow his car keys.

"Why?" Hank asked suspiciously.

"Because mine is blocked in. I need to run an errand." Nick held out a prompting hand. "I'll be careful."

Hank gave him a thoughtful look before finally, reluctantly, fishing the keys out of his pocket. "Don't do anything stupid."

Nick gave him a big grin. "You know me."

Hank sighed and handed over the keys. "Yeah, I know you. Say hi to Juliette for me."

"Thanks." Palming the keys, he trotted towards the front door, opening it to find a man standing on the other side, hand lifted to knock. He looked familiar but Nick couldn't quite place the greasy hair, the bad skin, the baby blue Pontiac Firebird double parked on the street.

"Hey," the guy muttered looking past him at the people in the living room. "You, uh, wanted to know who took over for Bruiser."

"Twitchy!"

"Uh, it's David." Twitchy licked his lips and dried his palms on his jeans. "Look I found out what you wanted to know. I thought you might make it worth my while."

Nick smiled the smile that Hank said reminded him of a shark. "_That_ is a great plan. Come in. I know just who you should talk to about that." He shut the door as soon as Twitchy was inside; reducing the chance he would make a run for it.

Greg McCall was still in the kitchen, mixing drinks at the impromptu bar that had sprung up on the kitchen counter. For a guy who didn't do alcohol and who had a beard like a hillbilly who hadn't seen civilization in three years, Greg could mix a mean strawberry daiquiri.

"Greg!" Nick shoved David in his direction. "This is Twitchy."

"It's _just_ David."

"Greg is the _head_ of the Drug Investigation Unit," Nick told him. "Greg, Twitchy wants to sell you information about the guy who took over for the guy _you_ busted right here in this _very_ house."

"It's just David," Twitchy said again, a bit forlornly. Nick thought he'd finally _looked_ at all the uniforms and badges in the house.

"Information, you say." Greg slid a strawberry onto the rim of the glass he was holding and handed it across the counter to his wife. "I'll be right back, sweetie." He slung an arm around David's narrow shoulders, steering him towards the back door. "Let's you and I have a talk in private."

Nick retraced his steps, heading out the front door with a bounce in his step, heady with the relief that, one way or another, things would be settled today.

He stopped off for flowers, tulips and roses and fern leaves that shed bits of greenery on the passenger seat of Hank's car. He had to force himself to stop looking at it lying there, innocuous and heavy with commitment, as he drove, mind skipping from _what if_ to _what if_. Maybe she'd changed her mind, maybe she'd realized how much calmer and safer her life would be without him in it, maybe the roses were too much, maybe he should have looked at his shirt and realized there was guacamole dripped down the front _before_ leaving the house.

The doctors and staff at Juliette's office took weekends and on-call nights in turns. Juliette's weekend shift was always the third of the month unless someone needed to switch. He was _really_ hoping someone hadn't needed to switch. Afternoons at the office were generally slow, excepting an occasional emergency, and the waiting room was empty.

Sitting behind the reception counter, Cynthia spotted him immediately, eyes going straight to the flowers. She smiled widely. "She's in the back room." She pointed down the hall, adding helpfully, "Alone."

Nick took a deep breath and went down the long hall past the exam rooms, stopping just inside the door of the big back room. Juliette was just turning away from one of the cages, a wiggly bundle of curly hair and big ears in her arms. She had on her white coat, stethoscope around her neck, hair pulled up in a no-nonsense ponytail.

"Alright, Thor. Let's get you on that scale. I have five dollars that says you've gained a whole pound— She froze when she saw him, eyes darting to the flowers and back to his face.

Nick swallowed hard and said, "Hi."

"Hi." She looked at the flowers again then back at him, smiling hesitantly.

"So I…I don't usually do this sort of thing." He took a step towards her. "But I've seen you around…." Another step, ducking his head and looking up through his eyelashes. "And I think you're pretty cute." Juliette's lips quirked at the word cute. "And I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime. Dinner maybe."

"Dinner, huh?" She contained the increasingly wiggly dog with a hand on its back.

He took another step. "Maybe a movie afterwards. _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_ is showing at the Academy Theatre this weekend."

She was trying to look serious and thoughtful but a smile kept sneaking out around the edges of her mouth. "Hmmmm…a movie about a couple who discover they've lied about their lives and try to rebuild their relationship while fighting off evildoers. Wonder why you would want to watch that?"

Nick grinned and took another step forward. The dog tried to lick his hand then stuck it's nose in the flowers. "I have an affinity for happy endings."

The smile broke out again. "Didn't everybody die in that movie?"

"Not the good guys." They survived and pulled their lives back together despite the odds and he _liked_ that. "So how about it? Dinner and a movie?"

Juliette smiled brilliantly and he was helpless to do anything but stand there and smile back. "It so happens I'm free this evening, Mr.…?"

"Burkhardt. Nick Burkhardt."

She freed a hand from the wiggly dog. "Juliette Silverton."

Moving the final step forward he took her hand. "I'm so glad I met you, Juliette." He meant every damn word of it.

"_I'm_ glad you felt like being forward," Juliette said, tugging him forward for a kiss.

Nick pulled back just enough to talk, still in her space. "I hope you don't think I'm the kind of guy who puts out on the first date."

"I'll buy you dinner first," she offered.

"Oh, well in that case…." He leaned in again and got a paw in the chest and a lick on the chin. "Ewww."

Juliette giggled. "I think Thor is getting impatient."

Nick eyed the wiggling bundle of blonde curls, a wet black nose and lolling pink tongue. "Thor? That's a little ambitious."

"He was named by a six year old with a deep and abiding love of all things Avengers." She stepped back to replace Thor in his kennel. "The cat is named Hulk. Imagine yelling that around the neighborhood." Arms free she put them around him, tight enough his ribs protested, and rested her forehead against his. "I _love_ you."

Nick buried his face in her hair, breathing in her warmth and scent, and whispered, "This _is_ going to work."

She squeezed him tighter before letting up enough to lean back and look him in the face. "So…any _other_ secrets we should get out in the open right up front?"

Well, there was _one_ thing…. "Did I tell you my Mom isn't really dead?"

THE END

_Author's Notes:_ Whew, wow, done at last. It wasn't really a surprise was it. Squirrel likes the happy endings.

I have a few one-shots to post and as usual I will take requests. I don't promise to fulfill them, but I am totally willing to be inspired. Send me your questions, I'm sure I missed something. Or many things.

I've had several people who wanted to know what Monroe gave Nick for Christmas. I want to hear from you guys what you think it was. Besides a watch. That's way too easy. Or maybe it's a specialty watch of some sort. Perhaps a watch with a secret compartment for carrying wolfsbane? Give me your ideas.

Renard's chicken crossing the road story is true. If you're far enough away from the Northwest that you didn't read all about it, just search: chicken crossing road in Portland, Oregon. Can't you just see Renard solemnly announcing to the press, "We were unable to determine the chicken's intent in crossing the road."


End file.
